The Gift
by GeckoBlossom
Summary: "I was stricken with vampirism nearly three hundred years ago, while on an expedition deep into the ashlands of Vvardenfell." - Vicente Valtieri
1. Prologue

_Make it stop…_

He was curled into a shivering ball, gritty ash sanding away at his cheek and temple with every tremor. His body twisted with convulsions that bordered on being true seizures.

_Please…_

Each spasm brought with it a fresh wave of pain that made him whimper. The aching of tight muscles that could not be relaxed, the pounding of steel waves that crashed against the insides of his skull, the searing pain of deep, dirt filled wounds reopening with every ragged breath. But the burning was by far the worse. The over eager flames of fever licked joyfully at his insides; dried him out and threatened to consume him completely.

The gray ash of Vvardenfell's wastelands had, at one time, coated the linings of his throat, mouth, and nose. Now, however, there was no moisture left to adhere to. The sharp grit was free to tear at him from the inside like thousands of tiny razor blades, despite his efforts to cough up the offending particles.

_Make it end… I beg of you…_

He wasn't begging anyone in particular. He had never settled into a religion. It was an open invitation to anything that was listening to the silent, agonized pleas his throat was too raw to voice.

He had tried slipping into unconsciousness, practically calling the darkness to him like he would have a dog, but the gelatinous senselessness refused to come near the wreck that had once been Vicente Valtieri.

He was utterly alone.

Alone and lost.

And dying…

Yes, he was dying. He couldn't possibly survive this; the violent infection that was rampaging through every inch of him and leaving nothing but scorched debris.

And through the ashes the forceful claws of death gripped him; wrapped skeletal fingers around his fluttering heart. With each passing second he felt the trembling organ slow and falter.

As time passed his limbs ceased their involuntary twitching and turned to cold stone that sank heavily into the ash and sand…

_No!_

He panicked, his bloodshot eyes widening. A fresh layer of sweat beaded his brow as a new terror filled him.

He wasn't truly prepared to die. The unknown was far scarier than the pain. The darkness he had begged for moments before suddenly seemed treacherous and diabolical as it rushed towards him with eager eyes.

It was too late to fight back, however.

He was barely a shell of himself…

Not even a shadow…

Death wrapped its slender arms around him as if he were a child, cradling what was left of the plagued soul. The fire in Vicente's disease ravaged body faded to a dim ember as the cold seeped into his bones; numbing his feebly beating heart…

_I'm afraid. _

He thought to the hollow void.

It said nothing in return.

His heart stilled.

He died.


	2. Chapter 1: Wayrest

There was little in Tamriel that was more beautiful than spring in High Rock.

The countryside was blanketed with wildflowers that danced and swayed lazily in the gentle wind that would then carry the intoxicating scent of lavender and magnolia into gleaming cities that buzzed with magical energies and hummed with life. Shop owners opened their windows with merry smiles and the delicate wind chimes that hung from nearly every building sang a chorus that could not even be bested by the elven choirs of the Summerset Isles. The people milling through the city streets greeted each other with an infectious joyousness that bordered on unnatural euphoria. Even the sun seemed to grin with a stupid happiness as it watched the people below revel in its warmth.

Not everyone in High Rock was out enjoying the day, however. In the quaint shops the merchants toiled endlessly to meet the demands of their clients. This was especially true in a bustling apothecary's shop just inside the city limits of Wayrest.

It was a tad out of the way- being wedged between a much larger armory and general goods store- but it was well known for its potions that had saved more than one adventurers life. And these potions did not make themselves nor did the owner of the shop stain his hands with the grinding and blending of herbs and beast's teeth.

No, that arduous task was given to the man's apprentice.

So while men and women all around the city enjoyed the spring air, this particular young man was sitting in the back of the apothecary shop measuring powders and stirring magical mixtures.

The workroom was uncomfortably hot from the fires that heated the potions and the various odors trapped within such tight quarters made the air within heavy and sharp. Every few minutes, the he was forced to vacate the back room and find clean air.

But, such was the life and woes of a student of alchemy.

Such was the life of Vicente Valtieri- future master alchemist. Or so he one day hoped to be.

"Vicente," Birard Desele- the owner of the shop- called from the front desk.

"Yes, Master Desele?" Vicente replied in a slightly raised voice as he carefully cut a twisted root into equal parts in preparation for a stamina potion. Because Vicente often reeked of potions ingredients and because his robes were stained a variety of unsightly colors, Desele preferred that his apprentice stay out of the sight of customers. Having raised conversations through the door that separated the workroom from the front were not uncommon.

"Do we have any health potions left?"

Vicente groaned inwardly and looked away from his recipe books. He could never keep health potions in stock, especially in the warmer months when adventurers came from all over Tamriel in search of fortune and fame. What most of these hopeless romantics found was something bigger and scarier than they were and most were lucky to get away alive, and his health potions had had more than a little to do with their survival.

But, brewing good health potions took time and he didn't have a cauldron already started.

What he did have were two small cauldrons boiling with fortification potions and one large one full of tomorrow's stock of Restore Magika that was turning a particularly angry shade of purple…

Once this was noticed, Vicente barely had time to scramble for the door and shut it behind him before the potion exploded with an deafening bang and a smell that seemed somewhere between rotten eggs and cow manure.

Vicente, still leaning with his back pressed against the workroom door, knew he was in serious trouble. And he was absolutely right. Desele went off on him like a firework, ranting about the waste of material and the damages done.

But, Vicente had caught a glimpse of the customer that had requested the health potion and found himself quite unable to focus on Desele's lecture.

The girl was in her early twenties, perhaps a couple years younger than himself with the humble bearing of farmer's daughter. Her skin was dark from laboring in the fields and her long lashed eyes were just as brown as her braided hair.

Vicente felt his throat dry almost instantly.

Luckily, his manners had not also evaporated.

Vicente had been born on the upper end of the middle class- the only son of a Mage's Guild sorcerer- and had been brought up to act every bit as chivalrous and well-mannered as a true gentleman.

Quickly brushing the dark tendrils of hair that had come loose from his hair tie out of his face and trying not to think about the state of his clothes, he stepped past Desele's towering, angry, balding form and towards the young woman. Once he was little more than a foot away he bowed; one arm behind his back while the other rested just in front of his stomach.

"My sincerest apologies," he said as he straightened up, "I fear I have made quite a terrible first impression."

The girl blushed, apparently unaccustomed to being spoken to like a lady.

"It's no trouble at all," she replied with a genuine smile. "I suppose this sort of thing must happen fairly often in an apothecary's shop."

Vicente was not going to correct her and say that this rarely ever happened and that only the worst apothecary shops exploded on a regular basis.

Instead he nodded and returned her infectious smile.

"You are very understanding. I truly appreciate it."

The girl nodded and looked out of the window. The sun was slowly starting to sink and the wind had developed a soft bite.

"I need to be heading back home soon, but I never got an answer to my question before- well- the backroom-"

"Oh yes," Vicente chirped, "about the potion," his face fell. Very quickly he had become quite smitten with the woman in front of him and he didn't want to disappoint. "We do not have any potions in stock today," the woman's hopeful smile drooped, "but," Vicente offered quickly, "if you could tell me what you need the potion for, I might be able to find a suitable replacement."

"My mother has fallen ill. Nothing serious, my father is certain it is just a head cold, but a potion would be most helpful." She explained.

Vicente thought about the many ingredients in the workroom, some of which would be just the perfect treatment for such an ailment.

"Would you mind waiting for a few moments longer? I might have something in the backroom that would be a good remedy for a head cold."

The woman smiled a smile that reached all the way to her dainty ears. "Not at all!" She exclaimed.

Vicente grinned back and motioned for her to stay put even as he twisted around to head back into noxious workroom. He didn't even notice Desele giving him a knowing sneer.

After a few seconds of fumbling around for powders that hadn't been ruined by the failed potion he found what he was looking for.

He practically ran back into the front room, almost as if he expected the woman to leave before he returned. He was pleased- and relieved- to see that she was still standing there, her hands clasped in front of her simple farm dress.

"This is just the thing," he said as he handed her a small jar of dried and crushed herbs, "Put a single spoonful in a cup of hot water, mix it, and have your mother drink it twice a day until she feels better."

The woman took the jar and thanked Vicente before turning to leave.

He watched her, until a sudden thought occurred to him.

"Ma'am," he called, quickly catching up with her at the door.

She stopped and turned back around to face him, her expression both confused and pleased.

"Yes?"

"May I have your name?" Vicente's heart raced and the question had come out too fast. He couldn't help but wonder if she had even understood his garbled speech.

"Marelle." She replied, "Marelle Charien." She blushed, "And might I know yours?"

Vicente took her free hand- amazed by how small and delicate it seemed in his, "Vicente Valtieri." He leaned forward and gave the back of her hand a gentle kiss.

Marelle's cheeks grew even redder, and she bowed her head in pleased embarrassment before she gently pulled back her hand and left.

Vicente watched her pass through the thinning crowd of spring time shoppers and through the gates to the city. For a terrifying moment he was afraid that she meant to walk home alone, but she climbed into a carriage waiting just beyond the city walls. He sighed in relief and started to ponder how he might see her again.

A sharp tap on his shoulder brought him out of his musings. Desele was giving him a queer look. Vicente suddenly felt extremely embarrassed, knowing that the whole scene had to of been shamefully full of hopeless romance.

"What?" Vicente snapped, immediately defensive and somewhat ashamed.

Desele paused before answering, "She didn't pay for the tea."

Vicente wanted to slap himself and he knew that Desele wanted to slap him too.

"I apologize, Master Desele." Was all he could say.

Desele sighed, putting his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his beak-like nose. He was clearly trying not to lose his temper all over again.

After a few tense moments, during which Vicente felt as though his heart was beat out of his chest, Desele spoke. "Go into the back and clean up your mess." He growled, "And I want every that was ruined replaced and re-brewed by opening time tomorrow."

With that, Desele snatched his cloak from the rack behind the front desk and stormed out of the shop, slamming the door behind him.

Vicente stared at the shuddering door frame before turning back to the workroom door. With a sigh and a muttered swear, he prepared himself for another long night at work.


	3. Chapter 2: Apathy

Vicente often lent himself to endless hours of musing during the evenings.

He would sit in his study in his favorite set of robes, surrounded by books and drying herbs and warmed by a crackling fire. Sometimes he would read through scholarly letters from his friends and contemporaries in the mages guild. Sometimes he would indulge his smoking habit- one he swore to his wife he would one day quit. And sometimes he did absolutely nothing at all. He would simply stare out of his window and watch time pass in the fields beyond.

A hobby that his wife never quite understood.

Marelle was a woman of action. She liked lists, chores and activities. She was very different from the demure girl Vicente had met twelve years ago in his old master's shop.

And he loved her all the more for it.

Even after twelve years she was still surprising him with her tenacity and willpower.

Her incessant nagging about his scholarly pursuits was a small price to pay.

"Vicente Valtieri!"

_Speak of the deadra and they shall arrive…_

Vicente thought wryly as Marelle stormed into his study, her umber eyes ablaze with irritation and a hand plastered to her hip.

"Yes, Dear?" He replied with a crooked grin, knowing that it was sure to send her over the edge.

It did. She threw a damp dish rag at his face, "Don't you 'yes, dear' me, Vicente Valtieri!"

She was using his full name, a sign that whatever was upsetting her was undeniably his fault- whether it was in reality or not. Regardless, she was in no mood to play games.

Vicente sighed, "Of course. I apologize."

"You'd better! Although I don't think a simple apology will be good enough, Mister Husband!"

Now, Vicente was completely lost. He quickly searched through his memories of the past few days, trying to find any instance where he had done some terrible wrong. He couldn't think of any, but Marelle was not the kind of woman to turn ant hills into mountains… normally.

Vicente pushed his chair back and stood up; closing the book his nose had been in moments earlier. It was his way of showing her that she had his undivided, if somewhat unwilling, attention.

"Marelle-" he started, but she interrupted him.

"When were you planning to tell me about this?" She pulled a crumpled piece of parchment from her apron pocket and waved it in his face.

Vicente leaned across the table to reach for it, missed twice due to the fact that his wife was still waving it like a war flag, then finally managed to snatch it from her hand on the third try.

He flattened it out on his table and read through the letter.

It was an invitation to join a group of alchemists and students on an expedition to Vvardenfell to study the plants and animals that only existed in the land of the dark elves. Vicente had received the invite nearly a week ago, and had subsequently thrown it away.

"I found that in the trash!" Marelle snapped.

"Yes, I'm quite certain you did since that was where I put it." He replied, still bewildered by her reaction to it.

"Why didn't you tell me about it?" She demanded.

Vicente rolled his eyes, "Because I threw it away. I decided not to go."

"And might I ask why not?"

Vicente threw his arms up in a pleading gesture- hopelessly lost as to why she was still angry. "Marelle, please, tell my why this has you so upset! Tell me what I have done wrong."

Her expression changed from anger to sad disbelief with more than a little disappointment.

"Vicente," she said softly, "you are thirty- six years old."

Vicente shrug, "Yes, I am, but I don't see-"

"In thirty- six years what have you done?" She continued, almost pleading.

It hurt Vicente to see her like this. It hurt even more to know that he was the cause, even if he didn't understand how or why. He moved around the table and closer to her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders because he didn't know what else to do. She nestled her head against the crook of his neck, one hand absently brushing through his long ponytail.

"Vicente," she said, "what happened to the young man that had dreams of becoming the best alchemist in all of Tamriel?"

Vicente didn't respond. He didn't know what to say.

"You used to tell me all about your plans to travel the world and be _somebody_. You were never content to just be the owner of Desele's shop. You had dreams and aspirations… This expedition could be just the adventure you need."

Vicente traced small circles on Marelle's back, "Do you want me to go?" He asked in her ear.

"Why don't _you_ want you to go?" She pushed herself off his chest to look him in the eyes. "A few years ago this trip would have been all you ever talked about. What changed?"

Vicente struggled to find an answer, something to justify having disappointed her so deeply, but ultimately he couldn't find one. "I don't know."

He bowed his head, ashamed. Marelle put her hand to his cheek, her eyes brimming with tears, "And that, Vicente, is what breaks my heart."

She gave him a soft peck on his other cheek, hesitated for a moment with her head bowed, and then went to bed, leaving Vicente alone and feeling incredibly small.

He didn't sleep that night. He couldn't.

His wife's words had struck him hard and they stung all the more because they were true.

Instead, he sat slumped in his study with his elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasped. Through the open window the sounds of a summer night trickled into the room, but the once playful songs of frogs and insects had turned melancholy. Even the fire's dancing flames had steadied to a low and rhythmic pulse.

And while he sat there, he thought about the past twelve years, trying to find where he had gone wrong; when he had lost his spirit.

Twelve years ago, Desele had grown too ill to run the shop- a chronic disease of the lungs. His hacking and wheezing made interactions with customers impossible. So, the shop fell in Vicente's hands and it couldn't have been in worse shape. Repairs that had been needed since before Vicente was even apprenticed to Desele were suddenly critical and the winter storms had only made them worse. It seemed every spare cent Vicente made went back into shop's walls and ceiling.

But, during that time he somehow managed to keep enough coin in his own pocket to court Marelle like a lady should be courted. Those casual spring time strolls through the city parks and shared dinners were some of the best days of his life, bested only by the day he married her.

For a short time things seemed to be as they should be. He had a store of his own, a wife, a home in the country side near Wayrest's city walls…

Then everything had gone wrong all at once.

The shop's repair costs reached an all time high- to the point that it was cheaper to have the store rebuilt than patched. And the economy made finding certain herbs and ingredients nearly impossible. Potion costs increased and sales plummeted.

But, the financial hardships were not crippling. Vicente made enough as a part time Mage's Guild instructor to keep Marelle's small farm- thus keeping her busy and happy.

The one thing that money could not give her, however, was a family of her own. Children. The mark of any successful marriage. Marelle wanted dozens of kids and Vicente was equally eager to be a father.

Children never came, though, and it wasn't for lack of trying. They had gone- discretely, of course- to mages specializing in fertility. They tried every potion and salve available to them. They tested old wives tales and urban legends for accuracy. Marelle even prayed to Divines such as Mara and Dibella for aide in her quest to become pregnant.

But after years of failing even to conceive, they had to face the truth. Whether it was him or her, they could not have children together.

Marelle was devastated and Vicente could do nothing to ease that pain.

So, he had thrown himself into trying to make everything else work. He rebuilt the shop bigger and better than before. He became a full member of the Mage's Guild and taught his trade to the incoming students that dreamed of being famous for their art. He even gave Marelle everything she needed to make her farm as lovely and productive as her parent's farm had been.

And after years of mastering schedules, budgets, and plans he finally turned the chaos into a smooth mechanism. And he had thought everything was as perfect as it could have been. He was able to settle into a comfortable routine.

And he did nothing to upset it.

For six years.

And that was what had happened to him.

After an entire night of painful contemplation and self-examination he could sum up his failures in one word.

Apathy.

"Vicente," Marelle said drowsily as she entered the kitchen the next morning, her eyes still gummed together with sleep and her hair tousled, "you never came to bed- what are you doing?"

She had just noticed the traveling pack sitting opened on the kitchen table while Vicente put various articles of clothing and several books inside it.

"I'm packing." Vicente said simply as he tried to shove yet another book on top of the wrinkled clothes in the pack.

"In the kitchen?" Marelle asked disbelievingly.

"You were asleep. I didn't want to disturb you."

"You're disturbing me now! Why are you packing?" She demanded noticing instantly, as women do, that the pack was pitifully organized and cramped.

Vicente paused, resting his hands on the edge of the table. "I'm going on the expedition."

Marelle stared at him blankly. "Why?"

"Because," Vicente said with a deep breath, "You were right- are right. I've changed, and not necessarily for the better."

Marelle pushed a few stray hairs from her cheek and tossed her head, a familiar determination filling her features. "Well, Dear Husband, you can't go anywhere with your pack looking like that."

Vicente smiled.


	4. Chapter 3: Promises

Perhaps it was divine intervention that led Marelle to find the invite two nights before the expedition ship left for Vvardenfell.

Or sheer dumb luck.

Either way, Vicente found himself at the Northpoint docks frantically trying to locate a vessel called _The Tsussaud_.

Vicente had never been to Northpoint before- his imports for his shop having been delivered to him instead of retrieved- and he swore he would never venture into the city again.

Where Wayrest was open and clean, Northpoint was ominous and filthy in every sense of the word. The buildings stood in every state of disrepair and some even stooped over the streets as if they were eves dropping on the dark deals and disgraceful businesses that went on in every corner and alley.

But even worse than the sight of the port city, was the smell. The stench of fish and filth- both animal and human- in the air was enough to choke any living soul to death.

And the docks themselves were a haven for all manner of undesirable people.

By the time Vicente found the right ship, he was more than ready to return home to familiar faces and to air sweetened by dried lavender and fresh hyacinth.

Fortunately, Marelle had decided to accompany him on this leg of his journey- her brother having also come along so that she would not be alone once Vicente boarded. Her presence was enough to remind him why he was leaving on an adventure he didn't want to have.

He wanted to be everything she needed him to be, and if she wanted him to go re-kindle his spirit in Vvardenfell, then he would do it. He had been unable to give her the one thing she had wanted above all others, so he had vowed years ago to give her everything else she desired in compensation. Even if it meant enduring two weeks of Vvardenfell's heat and ash, and a predictably terrible boat ride to and fro.

So, instead of turning tail and running back to his comfort zone, he reached for his wife's hand for reassurance.

But he couldn't find it.

He looked to his side where Marelle had been standing moments before. She was gone. Vicente scanned the crowd, a growing sense of panic welling in his stomach. The waves of people on the docks made it impossible to pick out any one person from the throng.

"Marelle?" He called. When he received no answer, he broke into a sweat. His mind, already spinning with possibilities for her absence, brought up a whirlwind a terrible thoughts. Northpoint was notorious, and a woman on her own was the easiest of targets.

"Marelle!" He shouted, starting to push through the crowd.

A slender hand tugged on his robe sleeve. "Vicente, don't shout. People will stare."

Vicente spun around, his heart pounding in his ears. Marelle had her hand on her hip and her eyebrow was raised in distinct judgment.

"Where did you go?" Vicente demanded, but his temporary inability to breath made it hard to sound properly angry.

"Just over there," she pointed to a kiosk across the dock, "there was a woman there selling charms-"

"Marelle, you didn't-" Vicente groaned.

Marelle and Vicente had many things in common, but their views on the importance of maintaining a religious practice had caused more than one powerful argument.

Marelle had been raised to worship The Nine and she did so faithfully.

Vicente's parents, however, rarely even spoke of gods and neither did Vicente by default. It wasn't that he didn't believe in any higher power, he simply preferred not to think about it. He always assumed he would have time to settle into a suitable religion later.

But Marelle honestly believed that her husband's indifference would lead his soul to utter damnation and she wanted him to settle- preferably with her religion- sooner rather than later.

"She said it was blessed," Marelle cut him off, "and would give the wearer protection."

"Blessed by whom?" Vicente snapped.

Marelle flinched at his tone and Vicente instantly softened. He hadn't meant to be harsh, but religion and worship was a topic that he didn't like to think about. It was too gray for a man accustomed to working in black and white. Faith in a power he could not see or touch was simply too much to ask for.

"She didn't say," Marelle muttered, "but," she said as her voice strengthened, "there is no harm in it."

"But there is no benefit either." Vicente reminded her.

"There is for me," Marelle told him as she held the charm close to her breast, "Please wear it, so that I might have some peace in knowing that someone is watching over you while you are away."

Vicente sighed. He didn't want to encourage her superstitions, but was not the kind of man to ignore his wife when she begged him to do something so simple as to wear a parting gift.

He put his hands around his wife's clasped ones and leaned forward so his forehead touched hers. "Of course, My Love, I will wear it, but only for you." He whispered to her. He couldn't see her pleased smile, but he could feel it in his chest.

They separated and Vicente finally got a look at his wife's purchase. A plain pendant made apparently of gold- though Vicente was sure the necklace was a cheap imitation made of bronze and painted with a gold pigment.

But, before he could point this out to Marelle she had already slipped the golden cord around his neck. Her arms quickly followed suit as she embraced him, her body pressed against his.

Oh, what Vicente would have given to have been home that very moment and to have been able to carry her to their bedroom to show her how much he loved her. To show her how much she meant to him.

But, he settled for attempting to convey all that emotion to her in a gesture as simple as a hug. He held her tightly to him, his head resting against hers.

They only parted when someone on board _The Tsussaud_ called for "all aboard".

Marelle pulled away, trying to wipe a stray tear from her cheek before Vicente could see. "Well," she said slightly choked, straightening her dress to distract from the moment, "You'd better get going."

Vicente gentle tilted her chin so that their lips met one last time. "I'll return in two weeks," he said after the kiss, "and when I do, I'll be a changed man, I swear it."

"Just come back, okay?"

"I promise."


	5. Chapter 4: Vvardenfell

The ride to Vvardenfell was every bit as nauseating and distasteful as Vicente had imagined it to be.

The ship was rickety and creaked frighteningly often. Every wave found a new hole in the wood that was then patched with something akin to mud- which was almost always washed away by the salty sea water before it could harden- and the ropes that controlled to mast were so dry rotted that they broke twice.

The crew was even more "delightful". Vicente had very strong suspicions that this unsavory group of bearded and tattooed men was more pirate than mercenary. They excessively drank a vile, homebrewed concoction and made inconceivably disrespectful remarks towards the young women aboard. It had actually gotten so bad that these poor girls needed two or three escorts just to walk across the width of the ship.

This pirate theory was solidified Vicente's mind by the flamboyant mannerisms of their captain, Mister Girard Tsussaud himself.

This man could not have been more conceited even if he stood naked in front of a crowd, wearing nothing more than his enormously plumed hat and shouted his conquests and adventures- some of which were obviously embellished to the point of being lies- for all to hear.

By the end of his first day on the wretched vessel Vicente felt sure he would not make it to Vvardenfell before either the ship sank or the crew went absolutely savage.

Fortunately, he was able to find some relief among his peers.

Originally, he had been somewhat afraid that he would be the oldest member of the expedition- having been under the impression that this trip was more for students of the Mage's Guild rather than for separate, interested parties, but he found the opposite to be true.

Many of the expedition goers were older, more experienced mages and scholars from Daggerfall. Only three of the eight members of the expedition were students.

In a very short time- the boat ride to Vvardenfell taking only three days- the entire group became incredibly close nit. Although, it might have been more for survival than for truly budding friendships.

After all, shared hardships are often the easiest way to feel connected to others.

But Vicente felt as though he had found a few people in the group that he would thoroughly enjoy continuing to interact with, even after the expedition was said and done.

François Rielle was a man that was in every circle. Whether conversation turned to war, politics, or the cost of wool in Skyrim, he seemed to know at least one person related to every subject. A friendship with him would certainly benefit anyone.

And that, Vicente discovered, was the root of the man's initial appeal. François himself was hardly impressive. Being short- even for a Breton, wide around the middle, and bald but, after getting to know the little man Vicente discovered that he was a natural story teller. His stories and tall tales where nothing short of enthralling.

Calvario Ventus, however, was far from articulate. The old Imperial had lost his hearing and a majority of his speech after an experimental spell had backfired. But, if you could sit through the stuttering and the garbled language, you stood a great chance of finding real gems of knowledge hidden in the mess.

Vicente discovered this quite by accident.

While pretending to listen to the old man's rambling- mostly out of pity because the others had already left him to babble without audience- he managed to tune back in just in time to catch the end of a long winded description of a plant that actually sang when approached. After coaxing the old man to explain further, Vicente became one of the few people in all of Tamriel to understand the uses of Nirnroot.

But, the one person Vicente had grown closest to during this terribly trying portion of his journey was Fasile Erranil. He was only a few years older than Vicente himself and they found that they shared quite a lot in common. Mostly in their love of literature. Fasile, in fact, ran a small library in Evermor with his wife and three daughters.

But, he was horribly forgetful, and Vicente had to remind him more than once that they had already thoroughly discussed several topics. Though, Fasile was of the opinion that a subject worth discussing once was worth discussing twice… or thrice… or even four times within a single day.

But, Vicente wouldn't complain. With the evenings filled with talk and fellowship, he found the boat ride to be bearable. But, that did not stop him from cheering with the others when Captain Tsussaud announced that they had reached the tiny port town of Seyda Neen.

Being a port town, Vicente had expected Seyda Neen to be very similar to Northpoint, but what he saw was the very essence of dreary. It was hot and humid and the buildings were all so saturated with water that their wood walls had turned black. The ground sank ominously under their feet and tiny dirty puddles formed in footprints they left behind. The sky was gray. The water was gray. The very air seemed gray.

Even the people were gray- though they were not as melancholy as the atmosphere of the town. They went even further into the realm of distinctly unfriendly.

Dunmer were not prevalent in High Rock and Vicente had actually only ever met one Dunmer Lord and he had been far from an accurate representative of his people, but Vvardenfell was the birthplace of these gray skinned mer and they did not like visitors. In fact, they made it quite clear that they did not like anyone that wasn't a dark elf, and even then they only accepted their kin that had been born and raised within Morrowind's boarders.

As the shipload of Bretons and Imperials disembarked, dozens of red eyes hastily greeted them with open disgust and distain.

Luckily, Seyda Neen was a port town, albeit a miniscule and depressing one, and had a few residents that were more open minded- being "outsiders" themselves.

One of the first of these "local outsiders" Vicente encountered was actually a Wood Elf child. The boy had run into him while trying to outrun a gang of other boys, mostly Imperial; presumably playing some form of tag.

After that, the entire group went directly to the trade house- run by an Altmer merchant wearing a gratingly bright outfit- to restock on supplies and wait for their guide.

They waited nearly three hours, but Vicente welcomed the pause. His legs were still wobbly from the journey across the sea and the rest was just what he needed to refresh himself.

It also allowed him to get his first real glance of Vvardenfell, though it was swamp land rather than the ash covered deserts the island was famous for. Despite this, Vicente felt as though he had stepped into a completely different world. The trees were hung thick with dark, slick moss and the sounds of the wild- so near civilization- were unlike any song of nature he had ever heard before.

There were no bird calls and crickets, instead there was a deep, resonating echo made by creatures unknown that rang through Seyda Neen like a hauntingly beautiful bell. It reverberated deep inside his soul like a siren's call.

In fact, Vicente became so spell bound by the music that he didn't even realize their guide had arrived until Fasile gave him a sharp jab in the ribs.

Vicente gave the other man a reproachful glance, then focused his slowly returning senses onto the man that had just entered the trade house.

He was a Dunmer, but he held none of the open hate in his eyes that the other locals did. In fact, his face was utterly blank. No emotion showed at all, only the hard lines of a man too accustomed to living a dangerous life.

The fact that his left ear was torn off completely attested to this fact. All that was left of the once tapered appendage was a thick, ropey scar that matched the dozens of others that criss-crossed the side of his shaved head and face.

Their guide had fought many battles, and had apparently won.

"My name is Brelas Indaram," he said, his voice ringing with authority, strength, and the thick accent of a native Dunmer "and my job is to keep you _n'wah _alive."

Brelas was a man that took his job more seriously than anyone Vicente had ever met.

One of the first things their guide made very plain was that he was to be obeyed without question. If anyone ever had a question, they were told not to bother him with it for he would be too busy protecting them. He spent well over an hour going over the many dangers of the ashlands and had all of the students absolutely terrified by the end of his gruesomely explicit lecture.

Even Vicente developed a horrible sense of foreboding that welled inside his stomach.

Then Brelas spent another thirty minutes going over their travel plans, which went as such: they would first go to the city of Balmora to meet up with the Mage's Guild alchemist that would help them identify and study the plants and animal samples they found. Then they would journey east into the ashlands until they reached the Foyada. After that, they would spend a few days gathering local samples and then return to Balmora to catalog their findings.

The itinerary would take the entirety of the two weeks they were permitted for the trip.

Then, they would take a boat back to High Rock- the part Vicente was most eager to get to.

After only four days, he felt terribly homesick. He missed his shop, his little farm, and especially his wife.

But, he could dwell on thoughts of High Rock.

He knew better. The whole purpose of this trip was for him to rediscover himself and he could not achieve that if all he wanted to do was return home.

Luckily, distracting himself was not difficult. Vvardenfell was full of wonders that he couldn't have even imagined- one of which he had the opportunity to see from a very intimate perspective very early into the adventure.

Silt Striders.

One of these fantastic creatures rested just outside of Seyda Neen, cared for by its lady caravaner.

It resembled an enormously overgrown and heavily armored flea.

Even more unbelievable was that the entire expedition team traveled _inside_ a hole carved out of its shell all the way to Balmora.

Vicente sat near the shell's edge so that he could the see surrounding landscape as they glided over it inside the back of this massive creature.

The Silt Strider traveled so quickly that wind that had not existed on the ground whipped through his hair and made his eyes sting, but he could not bear to look away.

The scenery was simply too majestic to miss.

The strong smell of darkly green foliage and crisp air filled his nostrils even as the land transitioned smoothly from swamp to forest to ash and back again. Hills rolled and undulated like the spin of a serpent and in the distance he could see the gray outline of an enormous, smoking mountain.

Below them, creatures that he couldn't even begin to name scrambled out of the way of the giant's narrow, but many legs and the songs of Vvardenfell played even more profoundly in his ears.

By the end of their brief ride, Vicente was completely speechless with awe.

Though, this was not the case for the other members of the group. They all babbled excitedly- retelling the experience so that it might solidify in their minds forever. They continued this even as they descended the ramp into Balmora.

Before Vicente joined them, however, he gave the Silt Strider a loving stroke across its tan, armor plated hide.

"It can't feel that," the lady caravaner said dryly.

Vicente nodded in acknowledgement. He knew the creature was too thickly shielded to feel a sensation as gentle as a caress, but Vicente liked to think that, like a dog after it had performed a particular task, the Silt Strider would appreciate a gentle 'thank you' for services rendered.

He quickly caught up with his peers and descended into the bustling city of Balmora.

As Vicente stepped onto the stone streets, he began to feel as though this trip wouldn't be so bad after all.


	6. Chapter 5: Rumors

By the time the expedition team traversed all of Balmora in search of The Black Shalk Corner Club and finally made their reservations for the night, the sun had sunk well below the horizon.

Balmora was a beautiful city at first glance, but as the group quickly discovered, it was nearly impossible to navigate. The stone buildings all stood in perfect rows and they had the annoying tendency of all looking the same. Shops looked like homes and homes looked like clubs and the clubs were so out of the way that they all but disappeared completely.

But the grand city was still a wonder to behold. Though the architecture was not traditionally Dunmer, it was brilliant all the same. The buildings were made of enormous slabs of white and tan stone that were sanded and polished to meld seamlessly into each other and into that which covered the ground. Simple designs of blue were painted on the exterior walls and elegant banners of red and orange hung from the doors.

The city was separated down the middle by a small river that ran smoothly through a stone canal. In one or two places a small dock could be seen where gondolas would stop for rest on their way down river.

It was a city of stability and peace and that was in part due to the presence of the city guards at every block.

These Dunmer were armed to the teeth and just as heavily armored as a Silt Strider. Whatever trouble these men were accustomed to dealing with must be terrible indeed to warrant such precautions.

Their armor was made of a substance called bonemold and the yellowed, traditionally decorated and adorned plates were just as strong as any steel counterpart. And their weapons were honed to deadly perfection.

Upon seeing these walking armories Vicente immediately thought of Brelas' speech about the dangers of Vvardenfell. Ghastly images of leather winged cliff racers, packs of insectoid Nix Hounds, and raiding parties of aggressive Ashlander warriors swam to the forefront of his mind.

No wonder the Dunmer were a cynical people. They fought their very homeland for the right to exist.

He quickly developed a newfound respect for the dark elves, though that did not make him any less offended by their caustic nature.

The barkeep of the Black Shalk Corner Club was a perfect example of this.

He mumbled and glowered at the group while they ordered their dinners and continued to grumble about "outsiders" even after they had sat down in the farthest corner of the room.

"I get the distinct impression that the gentleman the bar doesn't approve of our being here." Vicente said casually to Fasile- who was skeptically prodding a jiggling pile of pink scribe jelly with his fork.

Fasile looked up from his plate and then over his shoulder at the bar keep. "Yep, I think you're right. Looks like someone pissed on his shoe."

Vicente had stopped being outwardly appalled by Fasile's word choices, but such crass language made him cringe. It wasn't that he thought himself too good for such slang, but he certainly preferred the use of more graceful terms.

Fasile scratched the brown stubble on his chin- he forgot his shaving utensils at home- and looked over at Vicente's plate. The two meals were identical. In fact, the barkeep only served one thing, so everyone was currently poking and prodding the same strange foods in an attempt to make them seem more appealing.

"What do you think that charred meat is?" Fasile asked, using his fork as a pointer.

Vicente cut off a piece of the blackened lump and brought it to his nose. After a few moments he set the meat back onto his plate with a shrug. "I couldn't say. Some form of livestock I would assume."

"It's rat!" François squeaked from the other side of the table as he quickly tossed a fork full of meat away as if it had bitten him.

"No it's not!" Fasile cried, then gave the meat a suspicious glance, "How do you know?"

"Ifish thish ice ratt, denn erma owld manish." Calvario stated grumpily, though Vicente was the only one to understand him.

Fasile nudged Vicente's arm, "What'd he say?"

Vicente leaned over and whispered, "He said he's going to try it."

This, of course, was not the old man's exact words, but it translated to the same. The haughty Imperial lifted a shaky forkful into his mouth and chewed.

The entire table watched apprehensively.

The meat wasn't in the old man's mouth for more than a second before the stubborn pride in his face sank swiftly into disgust. To his credit, he managed to swallow the whole bite before mumbling that even his wife's horrible cooking was better.

This sent a swift pang of longing through Vicente's chest.

Marelle was an excellent cook. Wistfully, he wondered what she was having for dinner while he was away. He could just imagine her chopping crisp vegetables to go into a thick, saucy stew. The smell of his favorite herb infused bread baking in the oven… All while she twittered away happily about her day in the garden or her outings with her lady friends.

The memories were so tangible that his mouth actually started to water; which made the reality of his untouched plate of rat and scribe jelly even more disappointing.

Having completely lost his appetite, Vicente pushed his plate aside and tried to satisfy his stomach with water instead.

The others seemed to follow suit.

"Well," François said, his hands resting on his rotund belly, "I think I've had just about enough of that."

"Same here." Chimed the others in unison.

"So, what about that Brelas fellow, huh?" François offered, trying to distract everyone from their rumbling stomachs with conversation. "Where did he get off to anyway?"

"I thought I heard him say he was staying at the Fighter's Guild. Apparently they have boarding for their members." Vicente replied.

"He's a rather glum fellow," François continued, "All that talk about danger and death. He must be a right joy at parties."

"If he's ever been invited to one." Fasile laughed. "The poor guys got about as much fun in his bones as a sick cat."

"But surely he knows what he is talking about." Vicente interjected, thinking back to the heavily armored guards, "I mean, even the guards here look as though they are on the frontlines of war."

"It's probably just a show of power," François waved Vicente's concerns away with a lazy swipe of his hand.

"But what about all those creatures Brelas listed off?"

The group of older men turned around. One of the students, a young woman with flaming red hair, had apparently been listening to their conversation and spoken. Around her the other students nodded in agreement. The brunt of Brelas's speech had hit them the hardest.

"What," François replied incredulously, "you mean all that posh about cliff racers and kagouti? My dear, those are no more dangerous than a coyote. If we do not provoke them, then they have no reason to harm us."

"But what about winged twilights and clannfear?" Asked a blonde boy still nestled somewhere between being a pimpled youth and young man.

"Child," François said, obviously growing tired of these unwarranted fears, "we are hunting plants, not deadra. The chances of us encountering any such creatures are nonexistent."

Fasile nodded in agreement with François, but Vicente found himself in doubt. Everything he had seen or heard about Vvardenfell supported the theory that this was a deadly land to dwell in. He honestly thought that the students showed a healthy amount of fear and respect towards the wilds. In fact, he was about to voice his opinion when a third voice interrupted him.

"What about vampires?" Whispered a dark haired boy sitting farthest away. "I've heard rumors that Vvardenfell is overrun."

Both tables fell silent.

The students paled as they glanced at each other. Even Fasile glanced at Vicente with uneasiness in his eyes.

François, however, burst out laughing, tears of mirth streaming down his cheeks. "Vampires? Seriously? Children, allow me to put your fears at rest," He turned around as much as his chair would allow and spoke directly to each student in turn, "the chances of any of you ever seeing a vampire are about as good as," he pondered for a good analogy, "as good as waking up one morning to find that the gates of Oblivion have opened up outside your door."

One of the students snickered at the absurdity of the notion. The others glanced at him, then found that their own lips had curved into smiles.

François clapped and rubbed his hands together, his job completed.

The conversation turned to the legends surrounding the deadric princes that supposedly lived in the realms of Oblivion in comparison to the Nine Divines and all worries about cliff racers and vampires drifted from everyone's minds.

It was terribly late before everyone sauntered off to bed, bemoaning the early wake-up call that would come the next morning.


	7. Chapter 6: The Ashlands

The next morning had come swiftly indeed.

The group ate a hurried and tasteless breakfast before scrambling out into the overly bright morning sun. Luckily, their Mage's Guild escort was already waiting for them outside.

Larienna Autrus was her name and she was a very lovely Imperial woman. A classic example of her race: strong features, wavy hair, and piercing eyes.

Her welcoming smile, however, masked her no-nonsense personality. She made it clear to everyone that she did not consider this expedition a holiday. To her, it was business and she expected that they treated it as such.

"A perfect match for our solemn guide, don't you think?" Fasile whispered to Vicente as they prepared to leave the walled city.

The group proceeded in silence, many of them still trapped in the thralls of sleep.

Brelas met up with them just outside the gates, carrying at least a hundred pounds of armor and weaponry in addition to his pack. He did not wear the yellow bonemold armor that the guards had worn; instead he was decked out in a complete set of Imperial steel. A broadsword hung at his hip, a claymore was strapped to his back, and a silver long sword rested in his hand as though he expected a fight at any minute.

He exchanged a brief nod with Larienna, and walked at the back of the group, his eyes roaming the countryside like those of a hawk.

0o0o0o0o0o

The landscape changed swiftly from country to ash.

Leafy bushes twisted into gnarled, thorny trunks that spiraled towards the sky and the ground rose around them until enormous hills of gray surrounded them on every side.

They stopped often, for the heat had increased exponentially and it had taken them nearly three hours of walking- and stumbling- through the ash to find their first specimen.

Larienna was the one to stop them, holding her hand up imperiously and calling for a halt.

The plant was actually the first green thing Vicente had seen since they entered the ashlands, but it was far from friendly.

"Bittergreen petals are poisonous when raw, but safe to eat when boiled. The bush has red blooms when in season-" Larienna explained while each of the members collected a few of the leaves.

The dark leaves were waxy to the touch and smelled…well, bitter. He stowed them in his pack and retrieved his journal so he could take down a few notes. Later he would sketch his finds so that he had a visual reference.

The rest of the day went by slowly without excitement. They only found two other plants before settling for the night around a low fire.

"I don't think I can use any of this." Fasile informed Vicente as he looked over his collection of leaves and petals. "They're all poisonous."

"A strong poison is just as good as a well brewed health potion." Vicente replied as he drew the contours of a large Scathecraw leaf.

"I didn't think you were that kind of alchemist, Vicente." Fasile said jokingly. "Remind me not to cross you, or I might find a Bittergreen petal in my soup."

They both laughed.

"It's nothing so sinister, Fasile," Vicente assured him, "Adventurers look for any advantage, especially those favoring a bow. A poison tipped arrow can go far if used correctly."

"I suppose your right," Fasile said as he leaned back against a boulder, "But I hope you don't mind me saying that I distrust anyone that would take down an opponent with something so distasteful as a poisoned arrow or blade."

Vicente didn't respond. He simply continued to sketch, thinking all the while that- if it ever came down to it- he would much rather live than face an honorable death.

0o0o0o0o0o0o

The next few days were just as uneventful as the first.

And just as unbearably hot.

How anything managed to not only live, but thrive under the oppressive heat was a mystery to Vicente.

All around him the expedition team panted and moaned. The blond haired student had actually fainted. The only person that seemed unaffected was Brelas.

The Dunmer held his head high, oblivious of the angry sun as it beat down upon him.

The nights, however, were unnaturally cold. As soon as the sun set, the temperature dropped from blazing to freezing within minutes.

Needless to say, Vicente did not like it.

Nor did any member of the team that did not live in Vvardenfell.

François would dramatically moan and gasp every couple of hours, stating that he could not go any further while Fasile and Vicente both had to help Calvario keep moving forward; the strain of the journey and the heat being too much for the old man to bear alone. Even the students, as young and durable as they were, leaned on each other for support.

By the end of the fifth day, the entire group had grown aggravated.

Tempers ran high and co-operation had become nearly impossible. Even Vicente, who prided himself on the levelness of his temperament, had been snippy.

When Larienna finally stopped the train of exhausted and irate travelers, everyone practically dropped where they stood.

Except for Brelas, of course. He walked in a large circle around the chosen campground, checking that the parameter was secure. Once satisfied, he perched himself on a leaning boulder and watched the horizon, his silver sword gleaming in his lap.

A fire was started and camp was set just as dusk settled over the ashlands.

Everyone mindlessly ate a tough dinner of scribe jerky, dried fruit, and copious amounts of water, their actions mechanical with tiredness.

As the night wore on, the others drifted to sleep one by one. François was the first to roll sideways, the sudden thump and snore startling everyone. Calvario fell asleep next, still sitting upright. Then the students dropped off, nestled close together in a protective huddle like puppies.

Larienna had moved to stand beside Brelas, their whispered conversation covered by the popping of the fire.

"I think those two know each other better than they let on." Fasile said with a slight grin, closing the journal that he had open in his lap.

Vicente's head was resting against his knees, his arm clasped around his legs. He was painfully close to sleep himself, but Fasile's incessant need for conversation had woken him just enough to pull slumber from his grasp- for a few moments longer at least.

"If they do, Fasile," Vicente said through his shins, "it is no business of ours."

Fasile gave Vicente's shoulder a playful shove, "Come on, Vicente. I think they'd make a great couple… I'd feel sorry for their kids though."

The comment was said as a joke, no offense intended, but Fasile did not know about Vicente's struggles to have a family of his own. The thoughtless remark stung. How could anyone pity a couple- even jokingly- for their ability to have children, regardless of their race or appearance?

"Go to sleep, Fasile." Vicente snapped, turning his head so that his cheek rested more comfortably on his knees.

Fasile remained silent. Vicente knew that the man had been hurt by the sharpness of his tone, but he offered no apology. He was too tired, too irritable, to admit that he was wrong for being harsh when Fasile had no idea what nerve he had inadvertently struck.

Instead the camp fell into the quiet rhythms of sleep- interrupted only by François's rumbling snores and the occasional bleat of a wild animal roaming just beyond the hills.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

When Vicente stirred it was still dark.

It wasn't so much that something had woken him, but rather a peculiar sensation had interrupted his sleep.

He lifted his head from the ground, his eyelids still heavy with tiredness. Nothing seemed amiss.

He sat up, his elbows and spine cracking after having been subjected to the hard ground for hours. He stretched his arms and back, releasing the tension, then looked around the camp.

François was still asleep, his girth rising and falling noticeably with every breath. The students were still in a heap, arms and legs thrown over each other- their limbs twitching as they dreamt. Fasile was curled in a loose ball to Vicente's right and Larienna rested against the boulder Brelas was perched upon…

Had been perched upon.

Their Dunmer protector was not at his self-assumed post.

The hairs on Vicente's arms stand on end. He _felt_ as though this were wrong, but for all he _knew_ Brelas had gone to scout around or relieve himself…

He stood up slowly, the creeping sense of danger growing stronger.

"Brelas?" he whispered.

There was no answer. Perhaps Brelas hadn't heard him.

"Brelas!" Vicente called, louder this time.

Something reached from behind him and wrapped its fingers around his mouth. Vicente's heart leapt into his throat and he shrieked into the palm in fear.

"Shush," Growled a familiarly gruff voice, "Don't say anything. We are not alone."

Brelas released Vicente, who was close to hyperventilating.

Vicente remastered his racing heart before he embarrassed himself further. Brelas stalked the very edge of the camp fire's light, his silver sword flashing.

"Wake the others." Brelas ordered.

Vicente nodded and started by nudging Fasile with the side of his foot.

"Geerrff," Fasile snorted as he twisted to see who had kicked him, "Vicente, what-"

"Shush," Vicente put his finger to his lips.

Fasile took one look at his friend's grim face and swallowed.

Once Fasile was awake, Vicente moved on the rouse the others. The students were all utterly bewildered as to why they were being woken so early, but kept quiet. Larienna was already awake, woken by Brelas, but François was the last to stir. It took several not too gentle taps and a not so quiet whisper to get him to open his eyes.

"Everyone's up." Fasile muttered to Vicente as he ran a shaking hand through his hair.

Vicente counted…

"Where's Calvario?" Vicente said, his voice carrying to Brelas.

The Dunmer scanned the campsite, his eyes flitting to each of the expedition members in turn. There was a shadow of fear behind the Dunmer's stoic features.

A sudden whoosh and thud caught everyone's heightened attention. From the darkness flew a spinning object that landed squarely in the center of camp.

It was Calvario.

Or more specifically, it was his head, the bloodless face frozen in a silent scream.

What happened after that was a chaotic whirlwind of pure panic.

The students howled in fear, their wails echoing in the night. A chorus that was intensified by the roars and shrieks of a dozen shadowy figures that burst from the darkness as though they had been a part of it.

Feet kicked through the fire, sending sparks and ash everywhere. The smoke thickened as the charred branches found new items to burn and the sounds of a terribly one-sided battle filled Vicente's ears.

The attackers set upon them like wolves to sheep.

Bodies were broken by the force of the pounces and limbs were ripped from their sockets. Every now and then a spark and crackle of magic rang through the air, but it seemed to have no effect on the enemy. They only struck back harder, their faces twisted like an animal's as they snapped and clawed at their victims.

By some miracle, Vicente had not been pinned down in the initial strike and he did the only thing he could think to do.

He ran.

He sprinted past the tangle of bodies and weapons and death, avoiding the swipe of blood covered hands and the ignoring the screams for mercy behind him.

He hadn't made it four feet past the parameter of the camp before something barreled into like a speeding carriage. Both of figures tumbled to the side and rolled down the side of a low hill.

Vicente didn't even have time to wonder what hit him before he was hoisted upright by his upper arms, his toes barely scraping the ground.

The force of the grip was crushing his ribs, making it painful to breathe, but he squirmed and wiggled for freedom in spite of it.

The hold on him tightened.

He cried out in agony as four ribs snapped under the pressure, rendering anymore physical struggling impossible.

The beast that held him chuckled as his prey panted with pain and Vicente looked up into the face of his captor.

It might have been an Imperial once, but its features were twisted with sadistic pleasure and the shallowness of undeath.

The vampire exposed its terrible fangs, which had extended past its lower lip, and gazed at Vicente with an unnatural hunger. It enjoyed his pain, enjoyed his fear, even as much as it would enjoy the taste of his blood.

It leaned in slowly towards Vicente's neck, toying with its prey.

The Breton, however, was not one to be toyed with. He had never honed his magical skills- being far more interested in the tangible than the mystical- but he was naturally gifted and he called upon these innate powers to fight off the monster in front of him.

Even though his arms were trapped against his sides, he could still direct a current of magical shock towards the abdomen of his opponent.

The beast released Vicente instantly, doubled over in pain as the currents pulsed through its body.

The ground greeted Vicente more harshly than he had expected, but he was so pumped full of adrenaline that the shock faded quickly.

He scrambled shakily to his feet, trying to breathe past the broken ribs as he moved unsteadily forward.

The vampire- having recovered from the shock unnaturally fast- howled as it prey attempted to escape. It was no longer in the mood to play games.

It rushed forward, grabbing Vicente by the shoulders and spinning him around. Fangs and teeth sank into Vicente's neck, making the golden chain of his pendent bite into his skin, before he had even completed the circle. One of the vampire's hands held Vicente's chin, forcing his head sharply to the side, while the other dug stained nails into his shoulder.

Vicente couldn't scream- the teeth were crushing his throat. He weakly tried to push and scratch at the vampire, but his trembling hands did little to distract the feeding monster.

The world spiraled into a haze of red and black. The screams of his dying friends and comrades floated to him through a fog of throbbing pain that seemed to spread from his neck, all the way to his fingers and toes, numbing them as they went cold.

Time slowed to a dizzy pause, blocking everything except the sensations Vicente felt from second to second… The slight shifting of the fangs as the vampire drew the blood from his veins, the number of gulps, the slick of the vampire's tongue against his skin, the cold of fingertips as they bruised and bloodied him further…

He clung to the vampire's leather armor, desperate for support as his legs failed him.

_How ironic_, Vicente thought as icy weariness washed over him.

Suddenly, rhythmic pulse of the vampire's throat ceased and pain seared through Vicente's neck as the fangs were removed.

He was dropped, almost lazily as the beast lost interest in its drained victim.

Vicente fell onto his side, agony flaring as the broken ribs shifted. With what little strength he had left, he rolled onto his back with a pained grunt so that he could breathe, though his breath came and went in sharp, ragged gasps.

He couldn't see more than blurred colors and smudged outlines as a second vampire came to stand by the first.

"It's almost dawn. We need to move." The first said to the second.

"I'll get the others. Be sure to kill that one off. We don't want any… _accidents_." The second said, gesturing to Vicente's gasping form.

"Yeah, yeah." The first said as the second turned to round up the others. He pulled a yellow blade from his belt, knelt down beside Vicente and put a rough hand against his victim's cheek- giving it an almost reassuring pat, "Nothing personal, Friend." He said, then, while still smiling, slipped the blade between Vicente's ribs, tearing through his lung and aiming for his heart.

Vicente's body seized then went limp.

The vampire pulled out his dagger, sheathed it, and left with his brethren, leaving a field of corpses and gore behind to greet the unsuspecting sun.


	8. Chapter 7: Awake

The vampire's blade had pierced deep into Vicente's chest, but it had- by some unspeakable miracle- missed his heart.

Moments later, Vicente dragged his consciousness out of the throbbing haze long enough to blindly touch a nerveless fingertip or two to his side and conjure the magical energies that would heal him.

But, magic was difficult to summon at the best of times and he was certainly at his worst.

The weak buzz of magicka flickered dimly through emptied veins and seemed to trickle into the wound rather than fill it with liquid warmth.

The feeble effort was proving too much. The damaged lung made breathing a shallow, gulping struggle as the other tried to do the work of two. Not that it mattered. Even if he had proper use of both, he didn't have enough blood to circulate through his entire body and feed his organs with air. He was suffocating either way.

The magic fizzled out and his eyes rolled back into his skull as blissful oblivion took him.

o0o0o0o0o

Sensation returned to him like a battering ram, not giving him any time to adjust.

The aches and pains that had been so kindly soothed by senselessness came back with a vengeance.

He felt swollen and thick, pressure building inside of him as his body desperately tried to cushion his wounds with what little fluid it could find.

He didn't move- wasn't entirely sure he could. Instead he kept as still as consciousness would allow and let his awareness spread, not wanting to open his eyes.

His head pounded; an unpleasant change from the light headedness he had experienced before and would have preferred. Bruises had formed along his chin and jaw where the vampire had held him and his shoulder stung where yellowed nails had dug into the flesh. Surprisingly his neck was not the worst of his pains. It was tender, yes, and sore, but it did not hurt like the slit in his side. No, that particular pain was agonizingly relentless.

Every breath forced the torn flesh apart, allowing grit and ash to enter the wound. If he did not get to a healer soon, he would certainly develop a deadly infection.

But, as luck would have it, he could breathe. What little magic he had been able to summon before had been just enough to seal the hole in his lung. Both were now working furiously to nourish what remained of his blood.

After what seemed like a century of lying there as if he were dead, Vicente finally opened his eyes, tears welling in the corners as grit rubbed against them inside the lids. He raised a barely responsive hand to soothe the new sting.

The sun was low in the sky, bleeding red and orange into the clouds as if to remind him of the night before.

_Oh, dear gods…._

Vicente thought, as the memories washed over him like a tidal wave.

Only feet away, and just over the rise of a small hill laid the bodies of his comrades- ripped apart in a frenzy of wanton bloodlust.

And he could smell their death still hanging in the air. The sharp tang of gore and the putrid rot of corpses left too long in the sun.

It was making his head swim… making him sick.

He closed his eyes again, hoping that it had all been a dream. Wishing- no praying- that he had never come to Vvardenfell at all. He wanted to wake up in his own bed, the steady breathing of his slumbering wife reassuring him that the nightmare was over…

_Marelle… _

He fingered the edge of the gold pendent, remembering the chain's bite as it had been forced into his flesh. But, even more so, he remembered his promise. He promised he would return to her.

And he was a man of his word.

But first, he had to get to civilization.

He had to _move_.

It was a vastly unpleasant notion. The ground was far from comfortable, but the pain that would follow any effort to roll over, or even to stand was even less so.

But what was even more disheartening was that he had no idea where he was in relation to any town or village. Only Larienna had carried a map and getting it would require that he go back to the campsite…

_One step at a time._

He told himself. First he had to get up. The task would be easier if he did not have four broken ribs and a gaping wound in his side, but he knew that any attempt to heal himself magically would only exhaust him.

The last time had robbed him completely of consciousness and he couldn't afford to lay defenseless in the ashlands any longer. Soon the smell of rotting flesh would attract all manner of beasts and he had no intention of being here when they arrived. How the sickening stench hadn't already summoned the carrion eaters of Vvardenfell was a mystery… and one he chose not to dwell upon.

Instead he focused on steeling himself for the wave of agony that was sure to come as he started the struggle to his feet.

_On the count of three…_

He took a deep breath started to count.

_One…_

He gently moved his hands so that the palms pressed against the ground...

_Two…_

He grit his teeth …

_Three!_

He sucked in a lungful of air and rolled rigidly onto his elbows.

"Gaahhhh!" He choked, clenching his teeth, his breathing fast as he willed the surging pain to ebb. The tingling, blood starved muscles in his sides and stomach had pulled at the broken bones, making the rough edges grate through the swollen tissue.

He rested his damp forehead on the ground, tears leaving pale streaks through ash on his face, waiting for the pain to subside before he tried pushing himself into a kneeling position, then up to balance on shaking legs.

It was slow and painful, but he did finally manage to lift himself into a hunched mockery of a standing position.

His vision swam and his pulse thundered in his ears, but he stayed conscious.

His triumph was short lived, however, because walking proved to be a completely different challenge. It did not hurt as much as standing had, but his legs were weak and his sense of balance was very much askew.

The ashlands seemed the leap at him from all sides as he swayed, but he was patient. He was willing to plan each step as though it were a pawn on a chess board.

o0o0o0o0o0

He could see the carnage left in the vampires' wake.

Dried puddles on blood left small pits in the ash as they had been absorbed by the thirsty earth and bodies were strewn across the ground like nightmarish imitations of confetti.

He didn't look at the filmy eyes and bloodless faces as he navigated his way through the field of corpses. He refused to believe they were really there…

This dream-like state of denial kept him going; allowed him to maintain his tunnel-visioned focus and get to the pilfered packs without having the bear the full impact of the truth.

He knelt to examine them and to his credit he was beginning to handle the pain of movement with more grace.

The effort was wasted, however, for there was almost nothing left to retrieve. Everything of value had been stolen, the food had been stomped into the dirt, and journals had been ripped apart. The vampires even went as far as to slit the canteens and drain them of water, as Vicente discovered to his utter dismay.

He had become painfully aware of his parched throat and cracked lips.

If the lack of water hadn't been enough to cause him to scream out his frustrations to the darkening ashlands, the disappearance of the map had been.

He cursed and swore and screamed until he was horse, shouting to any listening gods that he had done nothing to deserve this torment.

He felt better afterwards, but increasingly weary. With no water and no sense map, he was left with one choice: to go back the way he had come.

Back to Balmora.

And the stone city was days away and he was already tiptoeing across the fine line between life and death. If his wounds did not fester and kill him, thirst certainly would; the nearest pool of drinkable water being nearly a day and a half away.

Staying put, however, was not an option.

So, with an immense effort, he stood up again and started walking.


	9. Chapter 8: Fever

The journey back to Balmora had started promisingly.

But after Vicente rested against the same sand-smoothed boulder for the third time, he had to admit he was hopelessly lost. Nothing looked familiar- save the circle he had been going in- and it wasn't entirely due to the blackness of the ashlands at night. He had gotten turned around somewhere along the path and had deviated into alien territory.

The notion should have frightened him more, but he was utterly exhausted. Even though he had covered little to no ground, he had spent hours walking… Well, stumbling, staggering, swaying… "Walking" was a woefully generous term for his pitiful shuffling.

He needed to think. He needed a better plan of action than to wander injured through the ashlands until something finished him off.

_What better place to think than in the middle of nowhere?_

Vicente thought wryly as he leaned heavily against the stone. He didn't trust himself to get back up if he sat down. His body's pains had turned into constant, burning aches- despite his attempts to slowly heal himself in weak, short bursts.

The magicka that flowed through him was stunted and he couldn't seem to regenerate enough to hold onto the spell for more than a moment. But his steady tries had alleviated the worst of the pain. The knife wound in his side was closing nicely- thought he wouldn't heal it any further until he could clean out the grains of sand and ash. His ribs were starting to realign themselves and fuse back together- the shifting of the bone hurting worse than the actual brokenness of it.

But, overall, he was starting to feel better. And that was certainly an improvement.

The only thing magic couldn't soothe was his thirst.

The dryness of his throat and mouth were becoming increasingly profound. Even his tongue had started to feel thick and fuzzy.

_Perhaps tomorrow…_

He mumbled to himself as he slid down the smooth stone to the ground. He couldn't go any farther tonight.

He closed his stinging eyes and absently grasped his pendent.

The weight of it was almost reassuring.

A reminder the life waiting for him as soon as he could escape the vile clutches of Vvardenfell. What would he tell Marelle when he returned home a shell shocked husk of his former self? It wasn't the change she had been hoping for…

Once home, however, Vicente was determined to never leave again. To Oblivion with adventure and ambition, all he wanted were his books, his herbs, and Marelle wrapped in his arms.

He could live with the humdrum existence of a lowly shop owner and alchemy teacher. He could bear to watch young mages live out the dreams he had once put so much store by. He had had his fill of "adventure".

His mind unintentionally strayed to thoughts of the students that had accompanied him on the horribly tragic expedition.

_Children. _

Children that would never see their families again or live to build one of their own. And their families… What would he say to them? For they would surely want to know how they had died… Babies that they had carried in their arms and raised so carefully into adolescence. Their legacy, slaughtered by vampires in the wastes of Vvardenfell where their bodies would be devoured by creatures so foul that even The Nine looked away.

And Fasile… What of his wife and daughters? Could they manage without him?

Calvario had been a grandfather to nine…

François had cats…

Survivor's guilt and grief. Two things that had been hovering over him like angry cliff racers, finally came crashing down.

The reality, the depth of the reality, sank in and as it did, it pushed clear tears down his dirt streaked face- moisture he could hardly afford to lose.

But, they fell anyway and he was reduced to a blubbering mess.

The dust covered hands over his eyes not hiding them from the volley of blood stained memories that assailed them.

When he finally calmed down he found himself on his side, curled into a ball and having no recollection of when he had slid to the ground. Once one there, however, he wasn't going to get back up. His chest was still heaving and the burning in his eyes only enhanced the burning in his throat.

He was _so_ tired and without meaning to, he dozed off- a drowsy nap that quickly deepened into a fitful slumber.

0o0o0o0o0o0

The fever hit while he slept.

The burning started as an ember first; twinkling softly in the darkness, then suddenly blazed into a voracious fire.

He woke drenched in sweat, his skin feeling as though it would melt off his bones. He was breathing heavily, trying to pant like an animal.

He needed water, needed medicine, but he had neither.

He couldn't get up. Couldn't even muster the energy it would have taken to open his robes and let the barely existent breeze cool him down.

He was too hot.

The pit of his stomach burned and curled into ash even as the heat spread to his fingertips. But as the flames devoured him from the inside, his body was wracked with violent chills that made his muscles cramp.

His insides twisted and writhed like snakes, causing him to whimper and moan as they contorted.

And somewhere, in the deepest recesses of his mind, he knew that this was only the beginning.

0o0o0o0o0o0

"Aggghhh! God's forgive me!" Vicente wailed, choking on his own breath, grinding his forehead into the ash as terrible spasms erupted in waves through him. The pain wouldn't stop, it was relentless. "Forgive me, for whatever sins I have done!"

"Please, make it stop!" He was crying, twisting, and writhing on the ground, barely able to string the sentences together.

Ash fell from the morning sky like snow, covering him in a fine layer of dust as he fought the fever that was rampaging through him.

His boots had made deep gouges in the sand, his arms wrapped around his gut, his fingers clutched his robes, trying to find some release.

But it wouldn't end.

He screamed and begged until his throat was raw, and then degraded to gasping moans.

Everything was on fire, every part of him in agony.

His vision distorted with every beat of his rapid heart and his ears rang so powerfully that his head was buzzing with the vibrations- making his teeth feel loose and his gums feel swollen.

His chest wouldn't expand. It would catch with every breath until he has hyperventilating with the effort to keep breathing.

Ash flew into his lungs, tearing through his throat and coating his mouth. He coughed until the phlegm came out stained with blood and by then he couldn't stop.

Coughing, twisting, writhing, burning, screaming…

0o0o0o0o0o0

_Make it stop…_

The convulsions continued, making him tremble.

_Please…_

Ash fell on his twitching form as though the sky itself were eager to bury him.

His breath rattled in his throat as bleeding lungs struggled to keep inflating.

His heartbeat wavered, burned beyond repair.

_I beg of you…_

He was slowing down, the chaos before dimming into the terrible realization that he was dying.

The fever was still there, searching for anything that was left to burn, but it was like a well fed predator digging lazily through scraps.

He felt heavy. Like stone, but his head was light as air as it hummed and his scalp tingled.

The shivers traveled down his neck and spine, teasing the torn and twisted muscles.

Minutes passed… then hours…

He heart skipped, reluctantly restarting.

His breathing had all but stopped.

His eyes, though open, could see nothing but the darkness of impending death.

And in the darkness he sensed something else. Something residing just beyond his recognition…

He could hear his heartbeat echo in his ears as he searched for the "something" in the dark.

_ba-bump_

_…_

He caught a fleeting movement out of the corner of his eye, like the darkness itself was taking on form just behind him.

_ba…bump…_

_…_

_…_

The darkness touched him gently, like a feathery hand resting on his shoulder.

_ba..._

_…_

_…bump_

_…_

_…_

_ba…._


	10. Chapter 9: Death

Death was supposed to be dark.

Cold.

Boring.

It wasn't supposed to be… _intense_.

He could hear and smell and feel everything…

The sound of his robes shifting the grains of sand beneath him grated painfully against his skull. The bleating of an alit herd some indeterminable distance away seemed like explosions…

He could smell the tracks and odors of creatures that had walked past his location days ago. The ash reeked of sulfur and made his eyes water…

Every grain of ash was prominent against his exposed flesh, the points seeming to dig in like needles…

Somewhere a cliff racer screamed…

The Red Mountain belched…

A kagouti bull raked his tusks against stone, scamps hollered at each other, a winged twilight screeched…

He put his hand over his ears trying to block the sounds, his eyes tightly closed against the dizzying vividness of the ashlands.

Every breath brought with it new smells that made his head spin… Musk, sulfur, fire, ash…

Ash tore at him with tiny claws even as the smooth stone behind him became riddled with sudden imperfections that he could feel against his back.

The sounds increased.

The winds screamed as they raced through stone and thorny trunks, tusks on stone grated like metal on ceramic, the mountain roared, bird wings beat the air, lava bubbles popped with terrible bangs, rocks slammed against each other as they tumbled, ashstorms rushed towards him, feasting predators scraped bone…

The sounds were driving him insane, building to an agonizing crescendo as they filled his ears.

Colors bleed through his eyelids- reds, blues, yellows, and oranges impossibly bright…

Smells became indistinguishable as they assailed him…

It became a maddening whirlwind, coming at him faster and faster, spiraling out of control until his own voice joined the chorus of utter insanity.

Screaming, beating, booming, rushing, grinding, ash, musk, oranges, reds, sulfur, fire, screaming, beating, smoking, roaring, blues, reds, pain, spinning…

reelingscreamingroaringspiralinggrindingbeating

screechinggrowlingmoaningtwistingturning

screamingmaddeningredvividblueinsanity

echoingburingwrithinggratingscreamingscreamingscre amingscreaming…

_Snap!_


	11. Chapter 10: Discovery

A tall Dunmer in a dark orange tunic adorned with deeply colored half spheres and a matching Mohawk strode fearlessly through the moonlit ashlands. His gray hand rested confidently on the hilt of a beautifully crafted ebony kitana, the gleam of enchantment rippling across its surface. Many a foe had met their end on its black edge, their blood dripping from the point, and it thirsted for more.

Much like its owner. The dark elf's nighttime stroll was not a walking holiday. He was thirsty, but not desperately so. He simply preferred to maintain a regular feeding schedule. The problem was, that food had become hard to come by recently. Something was scaring prey off and he did _not_ appreciate the competition.

So, tonight he was putting an end to whatever blighted creature had invaded his hunting territory and, perhaps, find some dinner on the side. He had been craving ashlander…

His pale eyes- the color of kwama milk- scanned the landscape, the faded pupils seeing just as perfectly as any other set, better, in fact. Where others would find the ashlands treacherously, impenetrably, dark, he found it crystal clear. Every detail was visible to him even without the half-moon above, but such was one of the perks of vampirism. He was a creature of the night, and was well suited for it.

As he searched his rather floppy ears where perked to catch any sound. The gentle wind tugging at his many piercings- a traditional adornment for the Dunmer of his time. As were the criss-crossing, segmented tattoos that elegantly hugged his face- accenting the fineness of his nose and shallowness of his cheeks.

Oh, yes, he had been born in a time where these markings had once labeled him a fierce warrior. Nowadays, from what he learned while digging through the possessions of his meals, his proud tattoos where common among delinquents.

A disappointing turn of events indeed.

But he rarely dwelled on his own appearance. After all, vampires weren't known for their good looks. His face inspired fear, his teeth triggered screams and pleas of mercy… Not that he ever gave it. When he decided someone was to die, they did.

And so would this creature that he hunted now. And just because it had aggravated him, he would kill it slowly- show it the error of its way.

The Dunmer spotted what he had been looking for, fresh tracks in the ash. But they weren't recognizable as anything he had seen before. The ash was spread out and indented sporadically, like the creature spent far too much time twisting around in one spot before moving on with all the grace of a grounded cliff racer.

He scratched the shaved portion of his head, trying to make out what the indentions _should_ have been.

He knelt down to examine them closer. Some of the prints were shallow; others were deep, like the weight distributed on the limbs changed erratically. He pressed his fingers into one of the deeper holes. The tip fit into the print perfectly.

A fanged grin played across the dark elf's lips and, indulging a playful notion that would confirm his suspicions, he took off one of his fine boots and pressed the pad of his foot into one of the shallow prints. His foot was too narrow, but otherwise it matched.

After replacing his boot, he followed the tracks, feeling like tonight was going to be an entertaining change from his usual routine.

The tracks didn't lead far before the ground became hard and the prints disappeared completely. But, the dark elf wasn't concerned. His prey was near. He could sense it.

Ordinarily, he would have engaged his Hunter's Sight- an ability inherent to all vampires that allowed him to see the aura of living beings- but it would be pointless. The creature he hunted was just as dead as he was. And, if it was as thirsty as he was, it would soon come out from hiding. The question that bounced through the dunmer's mind was whether the other vampire was a feral renegade from one of the local clans or if it was a fledgling abomination of one of the local clans.

It certainly wasn't lucid. The tracks proved that. But its state of mind would influence its desire to fight. Ferals would attack anything- their methods varying according to their bloodline. A fledging would likely attack once, then try to flee- regardless of its bloodline.

Either way, it would die tonight. He couldn't have another vampire in his area scaring off prey, and he honestly didn't like to share.

The Dunmer wandered around, getting a better look at the surrounding rock faces. Jagged, layered stone almost created a perfect bowl around him- an effective trap anything not as intelligent and skilled as the he was.

_So, _he mused_, you're hiding in the walls. An ambush?_

Ambushing was a trademark of the Berne clan. The dark elf should know, he was of the Berne bloodline. Cornering prey, however, was closer to the Quarra's hunting method. They backed their opponents into a wall and tore them apart with their bare hands.

It was starting to look like an interesting match. The Dunmer had no doubts he would win, but a good fight always made him feel _alive_.

"Come out, come out," he called teasingly, still slowly circling the interior, his eyes and ears at the height of their alertness.

A small stone- no bigger than a pebble- rolled down the sharp rock wall. The Dunmer's ears twitched and he spun instantly to face the source of the sound, his fingers wrapped casually around the hilt of his ebony blade.

The air was still, and the dark elf grinned to himself. The other vampire thought it had distracted him, but he expected the attack from behind. He didn't have to hear the scraping of bare feet and loose pebbles to know the other vampire had pounced.

In one expert move he unsheathed his blade and spun; the glittering edge cutting through air and flesh with equal effortlessness.

The other vampire howled, the force of the blow knocking him out of the air and to the ground with a thud. The blade had glanced off its shoulder, but that didn't mean the ebony did not bite deep- fracturing the shoulder blade and rendering the arm useless. The Dunmer felt energy and vitality flood through him as the enchantment on his blade fed him with the other's life force.

The first attack was frustratingly predictable, but the Dunmer had to give the vampire credit when it rolled onto its feet and lounged again with an angry growl. The dark elf knocked this clumsy attack to the side, his free arm hitting the injury like a battering ram. He was surprised when the colliding force of the two jarred his arm all the way to his neck. He hadn't thought the lounge had been backed by so much power.

The other vampire got the worst of the encounter, however. It whined, starting to cradle nerveless limb while it cowered on its knees. It did not attack again.

The dunmer approached, the tip of his ebony blade pointed at the intruding vampire as a precaution. It was then, with the other maimed and effectively defeated, that he got a good look at it.

It was utterly distasteful. Long, matted hair fell past its elbows in tangled locks, covering his bare chest. Every rib jutted out so that the dirty flesh stretched around them and his stomach had caved in from starvation. He was almost naked, his only modesty being the tattered remains of a once pale blue mage's robe and breeches that hung over a leather belt that hadn't yet fallen from around the emaciated hips.

The Dunmer almost felt sorry for it. he pitied it enough to forgo his plans to kill it slowly. He raised the ebony blade, prepared to quickly decapitate the pitiful creature.

The blade was at its peak, when the other vampire, still trembling with pain, spoke.

"Please…don't…" he croaked; his voice rough from disuse.

The Dunmer did not lower his blade, expecting a trick, but he did pause. It was rare for a vampire so far gone from starvation to display any signs of cognitive ability. Once feral, many vampires went mad and killed until they were killed. This one, however, seemed to holding desperately its wispy sanity. The thought was amusing.

The dark elf lowered his blade and studied the other vampire. It was a Quarra accident for sure. The forces of its attacks were evidence of that, but was he fresh? He had been wondering through the ashlands long enough to starve, but not long enough to lose control completely.

"Hey," he said, as he poked it in the ribs with his blade, wanting its attention.

He got it. The other vampire- provoked by the perceived attack- turned on him with renewed ferocity. Animalistic snarls tore from its throat as it twisted to its feet, its fangs fully extended and bared, its uninjured hand whistling through the air. The Dunmer stepped back, but hadn't had time to raise his blade in defense. The slash missed, but the other vampire wasn't deterred. It slashed again and again, using both hands to deal potentially dangerous blows.

The Dunmer dodged each attack, his skill in battle vastly outstretching the other's wild swings. He quickly regained the upper hand. He blocked a powerful swing, then used the momentum to force the other back so he could bring his foot up in a swift kick to its hollow stomach. The other hunched over, its head bowed and its arms wrapped around its belly. The Dunmer curled his free arm around the other's shoulders and slammed the rounded hilt of his blade into the back of its head.

Had the other vampire been human, it would have died instantly, but the fatal blow only knocked him unconscious. The deceivingly frail body went limp and the Dunmer allowed it to fall to the hard ground below.

The Dunmer examined the other vampire, debating his next move. He could kill it, run his blade through its heart and cut off its head. Or he could leave it and let the sunlight finish it, for it would not wake up before dawn. The blow made sure of that.

But, the other had piqued the Dunmer's interest, and that was a rare feat.

He was curious, and as luck would have it, he was just bored enough with his nightly routine to indulge in a change. For a while, anyway. He could always kill it later if it proved to be a nuisance.

The Dunmer sheathed his blade and heaved the other vampire over his shoulders like a deer carcass. The other was impressively light, and the dark elf realized that keeping a starved vampire around- even if kept in a cage as a strange mockery of a pet- was _not_ a good idea. Until the other regained better control of itself, the Dunmer would have to hunt for two.

It seemed he had quite the night ahead of him.


	12. Chapter 11: Pets

The Dunmer's home had once been the dwelling of a Telvanni wizard, but the old magician had died one night of natural causes- for a blade in a man's chest naturally ended his life. After the mess had been cleaned and the summoned abominations had been dealt with, the dark elf had settled in.

It was a spacious home, built into a rising hill so that the wizard's lab- the largest room- gracefully protruded from the side. The Dunmer had little use for magic, so the room was converted to a training arena. His many weapons, collected over two hundred years, hung from the walls and his "trophies" from his favorite battles and kills lined the shelves of his "office".

Bedrooms that had once been the living quarters to novice mages lined the hallways and most had been turned into storage. The Dunmer had, of course, kept the master bedroom for himself and decorated it to fit his tastes. But his favorite rooms were the dungeons located on the lowest level of the pseudo-subterranean dwelling. These expertly crafted prisons and cages had been crafted to hold test subjects and summoned deadra.

Normally the dark elf used the cages to keep cattle when hunting was poor, but they would be the perfect containment for an unconscious vampire. Just until the other managed to regain control of itself, of course. A few square meals should snap the other out if his frenzy. Whether or not the vampire had the willpower to be anything other than a snarling mess, however, was another matter.

If it proved to be incapable, he would put it out of its misery.

But, that was potentially days away.

For now, he would try to put some meat back on the prominent bones. After all, his mother had always told him that if he wanted to keep pets, he had to feed them.

This brief memory of his "life" brought a wry smile to the dark elf's lips.

"The things that stay with you, eh, Sera?" the Dunmer muttered as he deposited the other vampire- none too gently- on the stone floor inside one of the magically enhanced prison cells. That particular cell was used primarily for observation and the walls were divided horizontally through the middle so that the bottom half was stone and the top were bars of enchanted steel.

He would be able to see the other's progress… if any was ever made.

The Dunmer closed and locked the door behind him as he stepped out of the cell.

"I'm going out," he said to the completely unresponsive vampire through the bars, "If fortune is with me I will return with dinner."

The dark elf watched the still figure for a moment with a thoughtful look in his pale eyes. If he didn't know himself any better, he would have thought he was developing a strange attachment to the other vampire. Nothing impressive, just the beginnings of responsibility, like the duty one feels towards a stray dog saved from the streets.

With a snort he shook his head. Luckily, he knew himself better. This pitiful excuse for a vampire lying in his dungeon was a whim, nothing more. It lived or died because he wanted it to. And if he chose to let it live and to help it grow into a truly formidable hunter of the night, well, that was simply because he had nothing better to do.

The Dunmer left, well aware of the limited time he had left to hunt for food. An ashlander delicacy would have to wait. Tonight he would have to go after much easier pickings…

0o0o0o0o0o0

Slaves made an easy meal, if a distasteful one.

Having to bite through scales was hard on the Dunmer's teeth and fur had a nasty tendency to linger in his mouth after feeding. Their only saving grace was that they were kept in tightly packed quarters and were practically undefended.

The locks on their cabin doors could not keep out a thirsty vampire and even after loitering around to feed on one of his catches, he was long gone before the screams attracted the slave owners in the plantation houses. Carrying a young Khajiit over his shoulder did not slow him down in the least. Even with her clawing at his back and kicking like a child throwing a fit.

With time to spare, he returned home and dropped the dinner off in the vampire's cell. He wasn't surprised to see that the other was still in the exact same position it had been in before he left and he didn't wait around for it to wake up and feed.

He was tired and the night's events warranted being recorded. So, instead, he went to his bedroom. He quickly jotted down everything in his journal- one of hundreds now- and then changed out of his travel gear. In nothing but his underclothes, he let himself flop backwards onto his bed.

The exquisitely cushioned mattress puffed up around him and the number of pillows and blankets was nearing ridiculous. Many would have thought his bed too soft for a hardened killer- thinking perhaps that a coffin would be better suited for a vampire- but he liked the feeling of a nest, of having gentle walls protecting him while he slept. Slumber was when he was most vulnerable, even if he had dozens of knives and daggers hidden within an easy arm's length.

With a large yawn- a habit of his former life- that displayed his elegantly curved fangs, he nestled deeper into his nest of blankets and pillows and let sleep wash over him.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The young Khajiit's leopard spotted cheeks were damp from her frightened tears.

She was trapped by a vampire- to be used to feed his unnatural hunger. She was utterly terrified; her heart pounding in her chest and the corpse in the center of the cell wasn't helping her growing fears. The body looked as though it had been lingering on the edge of death for days before finally succumbing to its wounds.

She wondered if the nearly detached arm was a result of the vampire's habitual cruelty or from a failed attempt to escape. Or both.

She settled in a corner, desperately praying through her sobs and heaving chest.

She had thought the day she had been enslaved as a kit was the worst in her life, but she was wrong. The worst was yet to come. The dark elf vampire had had no soul, no pity in his eyes when he had drained one of her brothers-in-binds.

What she wouldn't give now to have been him…

A quick death was all she wished for and she hoped the vampire was simply keeping her for a rainy day- that he wouldn't keep her alive to feed on indefinitely. Or worse… She had often heard terrifying tales of the depravity of vampires and the dark elf's tattooed face reminded her of the wanted posters for bandits, marauders, and thugs.

She wrapped her golden arms around her legs, her tail curling around her feet and ears drooping in hopelessness.

It was a long time before her tears subsided. The force of her choking sobs had made her stomach hurt and her head pound, but she was accustomed to such pains. The dark elf that owned the plantation she worked was often careless. He would forget to send the slaves rations and he would work them long, hard hours.

A headache was nothing. The numbness of her feet, however, was annoying enough to prompt her to stand and get blood flowing back through the constricted limbs. The tingling crept up her legs, but soon faded.

Not for the second or even third time, her yellow gaze fell on the corpse.

She wondered who he had been before the vampire had ripped him from his home and locked him away. Did he have a family? Children? What gods did he worship? Had anyone prayed for his departed soul?

She edged closer to the pale body, wondering if he would be offended if she prayed for him. She followed The Nine- Mara specifically and Mara preached kindness and mercy. She worshipped secretly, of course, but the glimmer of faith in her heart had helped her through troubling times.

If she was to die, she wanted her last deed to be an act of kindness for an obviously deserving soul.

She nudged the body with her toes; half afraid it would jump up and eat her. When it didn't stir, she knelt down beside it and carefully pushed it onto its back. She had never touched a dead body before and it was a disturbing feeling; cold and too still. It was unnatural- yet as natural as life; only opposite.

Stomping down her uneasiness, she softly brushed the matted hair from the dead man's face. His eyes were closed- a small mercy. She didn't think she could have withstood it staring…

There was a gold chain around the neck- almost hidden by the length of the hair. She tugged at the chain until the pendent attached was revealed. It was simple, made of gold. Maybe a gift from a loved one. She placed the pendent on his thin chest.

Lifting her head to the sky and her paws over the body in offering, she prayed that Mara show the departed soul mercy for any past sins and that she would welcome it into her arms.

She had been so intent on her prayer, that she didn't notice the corpse twitch.

It wasn't until a waking moan escaped the blue lips that she looked down.

The dead eyes snapped open.

She couldn't even gasp as a fanged mouth lounged at her throat, the "corpse" springing upward with such tremendous force that she was lifted off the ground and shattered against the stone wall- fangs still deep in her neck even though her heart had stopped beating.

0o0o0o0o0o0o

The Dunmer was pleased to see his newly acquired "pet" had fed when he checked on it the next night.

The starved vampire had drained the slave completely, even gone as far as tear into her wrists in an attempt to find more.

The brokenness of the remaining corpse reaffirmed the dark elf's belief that the other was of the Quarra bloodline. Perhaps even sired by one of the more powerful members of that clan. But, the Dunmer wouldn't know until he could speak to the other vampire, and it was still barely an animal. He wondered if fresh blood had brought it any clarity, even if for the briefest of moments. It had certainly helped the vampire's gauntness, but it was only a cosmetic change. And one that would disappear rapidly if he didn't feed again soon.

"Feeling any better, Sera?" the Dunmer asked through the bars, not really expecting a response.

The other vampire continued its pacing…on all fours.

The dark elf shook his head, his earrings tinkling as they tapped each other. "You," he informed the other, "are certainly an oddity."

The other didn't respond, but it did stop its fevered circling of the cell to grasp at something at his chest.

The Dunmer leaned closer to the bars. The other vampire was desperately gripping a gold pendent around his neck.

The Dunmer blinked, wondering where the necklace had come from. He hadn't seen it the night before, but the vampire's hair was more than long enough to conceal such a small trinket. The pendent itself was simple, but the gold chain was delicate- too delicate to have survived without purposefully being protected.

More questions buzzed through the dark elf's mind and his curiosity was becoming unbearable. What kind of vampire was too mad to speak or walk, yet able minded enough to take care of a piece of jewelry?

The other vampire- seeming to forget why he had grabbed his pendent- continued his circling, making the Dunmer dizzy just watching.

"I'm going hunting. Don't go anywhere while I'm gone."


	13. Chapter 12: Breakthroughs

It was days before the other vampire showed any signs of recovery and even then it was slow.

The nightly feedings were filling the starved figure out, but he remained thin and strangely boney. His collar bones and ribs were obscenely prominent, even though his stomach and hip bones returned to a "normal" state of apparent health. It was almost as if the ribs had grown a size too large for his body- a look emphasized by the fact that some of them had definitely been broken and healed improperly.

The Dunmer assumed that this was probably one of the souvenirs left by the other's sire. Along with the thick, ropey scar that protruded from in between the ribs on his left side.

The Dunmer was well versed in deathcraft and knew that the wound had been made by a stocky blade- perhaps even Dwemer in make- and that the stab had been angled to kill. How the other had managed to survive long enough for vampirism to take hold was a miracle. The Dunmer couldn't wait till the night that he would hear the story in gruesome detail.

And that night appeared to come very suddenly.

The Dunmer woke to screams and cries for help. At first, he thought that it was the caravaner he had left for the other vampire. Which struck him as highly unusual since the other always finished his meals. As the dark elf sprinted to the dungeons he felt a sharp pang of concern. What had happened to his pet to prevent him from feeding?

The caravaner had no weapons, no defense, and the other vampire was more than strong enough to win a fist fight. Magic perhaps? He hadn't sensed much when he abducted the man- just the normal sub-currents of someone that dabbled in the colleges. But most mages knew a basic fire spell…

And all vampires- regardless of their racial heredity- were extremely vulnerable to flame.

But the Dunmer didn't smell charred flesh as he neared the dungeon door. Only the usual tang of stale blood and death.

He had, of course, removed the broken corpses from the vampire's cell and disposed of them so that his beloved home wouldn't reek of rot, but death lingered despite his best efforts to keep the dungeons clean.

And the smell was stronger now, fresher. Something had died while he had slept the day away and the anguished cries belonged to the survivor.

He opened the door to the dungeons and found his pet gripping the bars of his cell desperately, his whole body shaking in terror.

"Help!" he cried, his throat horse and rough- whether from his shouting or the time spent in disuse, the Dunmer didn't know. "Please, dear gods, help!"

He noticed the dark elf standing in the doorway and reached through the bars, his fingers shaking and covered in blood.

"Please! He's dead! I don't know what happened-" his voice cracked. He was on the verge of tears and tittering on the edge of a breakdown, "He was fine one minute, then…"  
The other vampire put his hand over his mouth to stifle a shuddering sob, "Then he was just dead in my arms… Covered in blood…"

The Dunmer almost laughed, but hid the mirth behind a barely contained smile. His pet had finally broken free of his feral insanity, but had woken to find himself in a whole new nightmare. It was almost too comic to watch.

"Get me out of here," the other begged, "please! Before it comes back!"

The Dunmer strolled the rest of the way into the room, "Before what comes back?"

"Whatever it was that killed him." The other pointed to the body on the floor. "Please, you have to let me out!"

The Dunmer couldn't resist, "Oh, I couldn't possibly do that."

"Why?" the other whispered, his breathing- an unnecessary act preformed out of habit- coming in short gasps that caught in his throat, "I-don't… understand."

The Dunmer leaned in close to the other's face and whispered, "You killed him."  
The other searched the dunmer's face, his eyes filling with disbelieving horror.  
"No," he choked, "I didn't… I was blacked out…"

The dunmer couldn't help himself, he let out a bark of laughter, making the other recoil in shock.

"Oh, you miserable, pathetic excuse for an undead," he said, tears of mirth in the corners of his eyes, "I'll let you in on a little secret."

The other vampire looked pitifully at the Dunmer, still not quite grasping what was being said.

"You're a vampire." The dunmer jerked his jeweled ear towards the corpse on the floor. "You sank your teeth into his neck and tore him apart."

"I-" the other started, still unable to accept the truth. He sucked in a breath and seemed to change tracks instantly, "I need to get back to Balmora." He gasped, as if suddenly recalling something. "I have to get back home… Marelle…" subconsciously he grabbed his pendent.

The Dunmer raised an dark eyebrow, "Who's Marelle?"

"My wife," the other swallowed, "she'll be expecting me home…"

"Look, Sera," the dark elf said, growing bored, "you are not going home."

"You can't keep me here!" The other shouted, his voice becoming stronger.

The Dunmer smiled and replied in an even tone, "I don't have to. You have nowhere else to go."

"Please, let me go!" The other pleaded. "I have to get back home."

"Sera," The dark elf said in a voice that an adult would use for a child, "When were you supposed to be home?"

"The third of Last Seed." The other answered after a moment's pause.

"The third of Last Seed was over six months ago. It's the eighth of Sun's Dawn."

The other vampire just looked at the Dunmer, realization slowly creeping onto his face. "You're lying…" he said weakly, trying to hold on to the slender strands of his denial.

"I'm not." The Dunmer said with complete seriousness.

The other vampire searched the dark elf's face desperately for something- anything- that could be interpreted as false… The sharp, tattooed features revealed nothing. The other bowed his head to the bars, the horror of the truth finally sinking in.

The Dunmer turned to leave, "I'll give you time to let it all sink in."

He closed the door. The other vampire collapsed, curling into a tight ball of grief and anguish.

o0o0o0o0o0o

The Dunmer sat in his "office" that night.

The other's distraught reaction to his vampirism made the Dunmer think about his own turning.

It had been nearly two hundred years ago, but he remembered everything. He, of course, had sought out infection- wanting the dark gift so badly that he was willing to risk death for it.

He trained his body and mind for months in preparation, knowing that lacking the willpower to control the impulses that came with vampirism would result in madness- much like his pet's.

The bite had been painful, but quick. He had toyed around with a feral Berne accident until it sank it's fangs into his arm, then decapitated it with a powerful swing of his Ebony Blade.

He had been ecstatic when he noticed the first signs of early stage vampirism mere hours later- having been bitten several times before with disappointing results. He gladly accepted the fatigue that came with the incubating disease and when it finally took hold and twisted him into the ultimate killer, he was ready.

All those months of careful preparation allowed him to maintain his focus and control when the first shocks of vampirism wracked his system. He could control his new instincts as if he had always had them- though admittedly they did occasionally break loose of the reigns and bolt free, but that had rarely happened in the beginning and now they were well trained to obey his will.

But the vampire in the dungeon had obviously gone through a different process. He had no self-control. No willpower. He was a slave to his vampirism- only coherent now because the beast within was so happily sated.

The Dunmer had no doubts that without guidance the other would quickly fall back under the tide.

He would give his pet a few hours to come to terms with his state, then his training would begin.

o0o0o0o0o

The Dunmer went back to the dungeons, prepared to drag the other out whether he was ready to accept his vampirism or not. He had spent the last four hours setting up a basic training outline designed to teach the other to not only control his dark gift, but embrace it.

He was eager to get started. The other vampire had become his personal project. He would turn the dross into fine steel.

When he entered he found that the other vampire had moved to sit against the far wall- away from the corpse. He was staring at the body with a morbid fascination.

The Dunmer rapped loudly against the bars, making the other vampire jump. He looked at the dark elf like he was the messenger of death- and a welcomed one.

"Kill me." He said immediately without emotion.

The Dunmer nearly rolled his eyes, "And why would I do that?"

The other vampire looked back at the body, "I can't be permitted to exist."

"You are starting to ware by patience thin," the Dunmer said as he unlocked the cell door and opened it, "Now," he said gesturing for the other to stand and follow him, "I have plans for you, so get up and stop acting like a woman."

The other stood, but he didn't move from his spot, "You must end me!" He said, gesturing wildly, "Stab me in the heart, throw me out into the sun, anything! But please, kill me."

The next thing the other vampire knew was that he was being held up against the stone wall by the throat, his bare feet kicking several inches above the floor. The Dark elf was livid, the pale eyes almost glowing with anger, his teeth bared. The other vampire was suddenly terrified by the prospect of being torn apart by the Dunmer. His knees bent towards his stomach in a vague impression of a scared dog's.

"Stop your whining and accept your new state like a man!" The dark elf barked. "You have been given a great gift! Be grateful for it. There is no room in this world for a reluctant vampire and I do not have the patience to deal with one!" He was shouting into the other's face, making him close his eyes against the sound in fear.

The Dunmer slammed the other against the wall for emphasis, "Do you understand me?"

The other nodded, gasping for air that he didn't need and gripping the dark elf's wrist. The Dunmer dropped him. The other's legs buckled and he crumpled to the floor, his hand at his neck trying to soothe his aching throat as he gulped.

"Good." The Dunmer said, his voice calmer. "You've learned your first lesson."


	14. Chapter 13: Lesson Two

The Dunmer pulled the other vampire by his arm through the hallways, ignoring the protests and stumbles. Once free of the stench of the dungeons, the dark elf realized that the odor continued to cling to the other vampire like a second skin. His pet was in desperate need of a bath… Perhaps several. He also needed a haircut and clothing that did more than barely cover his manhood properly before he was presentable and ready for training.

Fortunately, the Dunmer's home was equipped with a bathing chamber- though it had been quite some time since it had been in use since the dark elf preferred to bathe outside in the small ponds and hot springs that dotted the ashlands. He also had several sets of spare clothes- having salvaged them from his kills. He glanced over his shoulder at the slender vampire he was dragging along like a child. Surely, he had something that would fit the boney frame.

But, first thing was first. That matted mess of tangled hair had to go. Attempting to wash it would only result in turning the bath water into a mud puddle and would be an enormous waste of time.

But, one of the first things many trainers did was to give their recruits a cropped cut. It served several purposes, not the least of which was to start the breakdown process. After all, you could not rebuild a farm boy, street rat, beggar, et. cetera, as a soldier without carefully examining all the pieces. And getting to the pieces required that the original structure be deconstructed completely.

Starting with a haircut.

It was a simple thing, but during the Dunmer's military days he had seen many young men break down completely over the loss of their long locks, which they used as a sign of their individuality.

He wondered if his pet would do the same…

"Sit down and don't move." The Dunmer ordered once they entered the bathing chamber.  
It wasn't a large room and it wasn't decorated in any interesting way. A covered tub rested near the back wall, a large storage cabinet sat against the left wall and a mirror- obviously imported, or stolen, since it was not made of of Vvardenfell's natural green glass, and a chair that the Dunmer had moved to the center of the room.

The other vampire- now free of the Dunmer's grip- could have chosen that moment to run. He might have even gotten as far as the lower hallway before the dark elf caught and subsequently killed him. But their altercation in the cell had established the Dunmer vampire as the dominant force- and one that was not to be messed with while the other vampire was still in shock.

So, he obeyed, grasping his pendent as he sat and absently staring at the floor.  
It wasn't until he felt the Dunmer start to saw roughly at his hair with a small knife that he snapped out of his stupor. He pulled sharply away, one hand at the back of his head where a lock of hair had once been. He twisted half around so that he could see the other vampire.

"What are you doing!" he demanded, rubbing the sore spot.

The Dunmer shoved the other vampire back around to face the front, "I'm doing you a favor, Sera." He showed the other vampire the gritty, matted lock of hair- which more closely resembled dark brown rope- that he had sawed free.

The other looked at it. He had felt that his hair was in a right state, but he hadn't realized just how bad it actually was. He was disgusted with himself. The lock was matted with dried blood, dirt, and ash. Grit actually hit the floor as the Dunmer held it.

The other sat obediently still for the rest of the hair cut, watching in fascination as the pile around the chair's legs grew.

"So what do you remember?" The Dunmer asked after a long silence. He was only a quarter of the through the mess.

The other vampire didn't answer. He was trying, but unable, to piece together the scattered memories. The latest he could clearly recall was setting out from Balmora then everything was just a fog of swirling sounds and colors.

"Nothing, hm?" The Dunmer supplied. "Let's try an easier question… What's your name?"

"Vicente." The other vampire replied automatically.

"No family name?" The Dunmer prompted.

"Valtieri," Vicente said.

"That sounds like a Breton name." The Dunmer stated as he tossed yet another rope of hair to the ground.

"I am a Breton." Vicente said. If the Dunmer didn't know better he would have sworn there was a hint of pride in the voice. His pet's personality was starting to bleed through.

_Good,_ he thought, _makes it easier to draw out and rip apart._

The Dunmer shrugged, "All humans look the same." He said in a purposefully dismissive way.

To the dark elf's disappointment, Vicente did not react to the slight.  
More silence.

"What are you called?" Vicente finally asked.

The Dunmer smiled, his long teeth flashing, "I, Sera, have many titles. I am the General of House Rhedoran, Champion of Boethiah, The Chosen of Mephala, The Scourge of Mehrunes Dagon, The Son of Molag Bal... But, for time and efficiency's sake, you may call me Drevas."

"Warmest greetings." Vicente recited. It was a traditional Breton greeting.

The Dunmer repressed a snort, not missing the passive aggressive response. "Well met." He replied.

0o0o0o0o

Vicente's head felt several pounds lighter and much cleaner after the hair cut, but it also felt bizarrely naked. He hadn't had short hair since he was a boy and even though his scalp was still covered in dirt, he couldn't help but run his fingers through the short bristles. Drevas hadn't left much. But after seeing the sheer amount of filthy hair on the floor, he wouldn't complain. It would, after all, grow back.

What would never return to normal, however, was his physical appearance.

While looking in the mirror- a small miracle since all the vampire lore he had ever encountered stated that the undead had no reflections- he found himself looking at the pale features of another being entirely.

Eyes that had once been a rich brown were a ghastly shade of faded pink flecked with red near the center. The bones of his cheeks seemed sharper and his lips had blended perfectly with the pale flesh. His neck was much thinner and his collar bones stretched his skin, but his ribs had become the most alien feature. Well, his entire rib cage. He had never been a muscular man, nor had he been so thin that his ribs had pressed out obscenely, but now he could count every one of the slender bones. Even his breast plate and the ridge along his diaphragm were clearly visible.

Which was such a terrible contrast to the normalcy of his stomach and hips- both of which were soft like they had been before.

Even his limbs maintained their original appearance.

It was as if he had swapped chests with a slightly bigger and heavily emaciated man.  
The one thing he had expected to see, but didn't, were the trademark fangs of a vampire. He had, of course, opened his mouth and carefully examined his canines, but they were not any longer than before, only sharper… They actually seemed smaller- taking up less space in their little niche than before.

"Still looking at yourself?" Drevas asked incredulously as he walked through the chamber room door holding a bundle of cloth under his arm. "Here," he said as he tossed the bundle to Vicente, "Do yourself a favor."

Vicente had to twist to catch the cloth, but the soap wrapped inside the towel fell to the floor despite his best attempt to keep the unraveling bundle together.  
"Why aren't my teeth like yours?" Vicente asked before Drevas turned to leave and give him some privacy.

"You're young," Drevas replied, "As far as vampires go, anyway. As such, your fangs will retract until needed."

"Until needed?" Vicente asked before he thought.

"For feeding. They'll extend when you enter bloodlust. It's a safety mechanism as far as I know. Extended fangs, after all, are more likely to break. As you get older, though, they won't retract as far. By the time you're my age they will be permanently elongated." Drevas explained.

"How old are you?" Vicente asked then quickly added, "If I may ask."

"Two hundred." Drevas replied with more than a little pride. "Give or take a few decades."

"How often do vampires live to such an age?"

"They don't."

0o0o0o0o

The bath was just what Vicente needed to feel "human" again.

He scrubbed himself as though he could wash his new curse away along with the dirt. The vampirism, of course, remained, but he was clean and that was a step in the right direction. As were the new set of clothes Drevas had found for him.

The beige tunic and brown pants might not have been much to look at, but they fit. He didn't want to ponder how the dark elf had gotten the clothes- quite sure that the original owner had met a very gruesome fate. Maybe he had been Breton as well...

Vicente's thoughts wondered home as he absently tied the front of the tunic.

Drevas had told him that it had been six months since he had been expected to return to Northpoint. How long had Marelle waited for him on the docks? Did she receive a letter explaining his demise? Did she receive anything at all? Was she still waiting, praying for him to come back?

Six months was a long time, but he could still go back. He'd find a story, tell a lie, hide his vampirism...

He'd thank Drevas for his help then go to the nearest port town. Surely someone would be going to High Rock. He'd stowaway in a crate if he had to, but he would get home. He had promised.

He pulled his pendent out from under his shirt so that it rested in plain view then looked at his reflection one last time.

He looked nothing like the man that had left High Rock. That man had been a scholar, a teacher, a merchant… The man in the mirror looked like an exhausted miner that had spent far too much time underground. Would Marelle even recognize him with his bristled hair and sunken cheeks?

The pendent gleamed faintly in the mirror, reflecting the candle light of the chamber.

_Of course she'll recognize me_, he reassured himself, _I'm her husband. For better or for worse, our love will endure._

He just needed to find Drevas and thank him before he left. The Dunmer deserved every ounce of gratitude he could give. If he hadn't found him and nursed him back to health- both physical and mental- he'd still be wandering the ashlands like an animal.

It was because of Drevas that he was back to normal- as normal as he could get anyway.  
Vicente left the bath chamber. Drevas had mentioned being in the upper levels of the building, a training room, if Vicente had heard correctly. So, he followed the rise of the stone floor until he reached a large green door at the end of the hall. He opened it and went inside, immediately dazzled by the sheer number of bright and gleaming weapons that lined the walls. Swords, daggers, maces, clubs, axes, bows, spears, staves, and some he couldn't even name. Glass cases held a beautiful and deadly array of throwing stars and knives while expertly crafted stands displayed blades that were taller than he was.

Drevas was obviously a collector.

The dark elf was actually polishing a gorgeous ebony kitana whose flawless surface rippled with magical currents.

"Drevas," Vicente called, not wanted to startle the other by mistake- he didn't realize that the dark elf had been aware of Vicente's approach ever since he had left the bath chamber.

The Dunmer looked up, eyeing Vicente with approval. "You look much better. I'm glad to see those clothes fit. I had nothing smaller to give."

"Yes," Vicente replied, "they are quite fine, I thank you."

"Good." Drevas said as he stood and placed the blade on a decorative stand. "I would hate to think that you would be ungracious." He clapped his dark hands together and rubbed them against each other, "Now we can actually get started."

Vicente was taken aback, very much confused. "Get started with what?"

"Your training, of course." Drevas started to walk circles around Vicente, sizing him up.  
"Training? For what?" Vicente asked bewildered, twisting around to follow the dark elf's movements.

"For your survival and my entertainment." Drevas said as if the answer was obvious and equally unimportant. He pushed against Vicente's shoulder blade testing for balance and resistance.

Vicente stepped away, turning to face Drevas. "I truly appreciate your concern and your willingness to help me, but I can't stay here."

Drevas stopped his circling, his pale eyes narrowed.

Vicente continued, somewhat frightened by the sudden change in the dark elf's demeanor, "I must return to High Rock. I came to thank you for everything you've done. You've earned my everlasting gratitude-"

The Dunmer approached Vicente- who held his ground, "I've told you before you can't leave."

Vicente opened his mouth to argue, stating that as a grown and independent man he was free to do as he pleased- his drive to return home outweighing the memory of the dark fingers around his throat, but Drevas cut him off.

"What will you do once your home, hmm? Your loved ones assume you're dead. They've moved on. Your little wife is probably courting another man by now-"

"Don't!" Vicente barked, "Don't say that! I know she is faithful to me-"

"You're a dead man!" Drevas shouted back. "What would you tell her? How would you explain your absence? Your thirst? Do you honestly think she will understand? Would she accept you if she knows you must drink blood to survive?"

"I won't drink blood." Vicente snarled. "I'll find other ways-"

"And you'll turn back into an animal and turn on her as soon as you smell her blood!" Drevas was in Vicente's face now, only inches from being nose to nose.

Vicente had leaned back instinctively, but he was not giving up his argument, "I will not! I love her!"

"You've been lucid for less than eight hours and you think you have the willpower and strength to control yourself without me? Fine," Drevas growled, "We'll put you to the test."

Drevas walked away, giving Vicente breathing room- which he was very thankful for since the dark elf was gotten far too close for comfort. He disappeared up a ramp to his balcony "office". Moments later he descended the ramp, pushing a bound and terrified Dunmer girl in front of him.

She stumbled down the ramp, tears pouring from her red eyes and gasping with fear. She was young- barely a woman by Dunmer standards.

Drevas stood in the center of the room, nearly thirty feet from Vicente and pulled a knife on the girl.

Vicente could hear her heart beat, almost feel it echo in his ears as she realized her death was imminent. Even though she had no open wounds, he could smell her blood as it rushed through her at an intoxicating rate.

His whole world narrowed. Nothing existed except for the throbbing veins on the girl's neck. He could actually see the flesh bounce with every pulse, zeroing in on every point where the blood was closest to the surface.

The adrenaline practically hovered around her like a cloud of seasoning that made his mouth water…

And the saliva stung. It was acidic and bitter- like venom.

He was barely aware that his own breathing had quickened and his muscles twitched as they tensed. The aching in his upper jaw, however, was very prominent. It was sweet, like arousal, but more powerful than any lustful craving he had ever experienced before. The pain sharpened as his fangs descended, venom welling in his mouth like barely contained drool.

Drevas's blade teased the skin on the girl's neck before lightly nicking the flesh, breaking the surface just enough to let a string of blood bead like red pearls.

The Dunmer barely had time to step aside as Vicente set upon the girl like a starving man, his fangs tearing through her neck over the slender cut.

The strength of the pounce had sent both had sent both rolling across the floor. Drevas watched in satisfaction as Vicente drained the girl completely, violently gnawing deeper into her throat until his teeth scraped bone.

A few minutes ticked by, filled only by the sound of Vicente gulping the blood down like he might never feed again. Drevas waited patiently for him to finish, knowing that his point would be stronger if the other was allowed to come to on his own rather than being jerked back into the present.

He was greatly pleased- almost sadistically so- when Vicente finally sat back on his legs, staring in utter horror at the blood-soaked mess pinned under him. A grief-stricken wail tore through the air. Vicente's hands curled through what was left of his hair and he sank forward in a child-like pose with his forehead resting on the lifeless chest of the girl as he cried- cursing everything and everyone for his pain and misfortune.

Drevas clasped his hands behind his back, a crooked smile playing across his face.

"Lesson Two, Sera." He said as he left.


	15. Chapter 14: Training

Drevas had indeed gotten his point across.

Vicente grieved until he was exhausted. He knew it was selfish to think only of his losses while the body of the dark elf girl lay under him, but he didn't care. His world had become one nightmare after another.

And he couldn't even wake up.

He was stuck inside a body with impulses and needs he could not control. He was scared of what he had become, what he could do. One minute he is a man and the next he is a blood sucking beast with no sense of self.

He was lost. And Drevas- who was rapidly becoming the focal point of Vicente's anger- was the only one willing and able to help him. Did it matter that the Dunmer's motives were unclear and questionable?

No.

It didn't matter why Drevas had chosen to help because Vicente had no other choice than to accept the hand that was extended to him.

As he calmed down he realized a simple, but binding truth: he couldn't control his new instincts.

Without the Dunmer he would regress back into the wild animal he had been before.

And that was not an option.

He despised what he had become, loathed his new needs and desires, but that creature that had roamed the wastes like a nightmare reborn into reality haunted him.

He would never revisit that state.

Vicente sat up, composing himself and trying to wipe the blood from his mouth. All the while looking at the girl.

She could have been anyone. A merchant's daughter. A young bride. An ashlander princess. She could have just as easily been Marelle. And he would have killed her a hundred times over- just to taste the fear in her blood, to feel her flesh give way under his fangs, to feel the initial burst of her lifeforce hit the back of his throat as it was propelled by her racing heart…

It was a sensation he craved, even after drinking his fill for second time since he had "awakened".

Vampires were gluttonous creatures indeed.

Yet, Drevas had been in complete control of himself as he held the girl in place. The Dunmer hadn't even batted an eyelash as the blood beaded on her neck- and he had been the one to draw it! He had his impulses on a tight leash and they obeyed his will.

Vicente wanted that.

That control, that confidence in knowing that he would never be dragged down into mindlessness by his new instincts again.

He stood up, looking away from the dead girl. His blood stained reflection glared at him from the polished surface of dozens of blades and shields and axes.

He couldn't go home. High Rock had no place for him as he was.

Vvardenfell had birthed him, so it was in Vvardenfell he would stay.

He would learn to control himself- even if he never learned to love himself.

Vicente left the training room and went, for the second time, to search for the Dunmer. Only this time he would gladly accept Drevas's training. He'd throw himself into it, devote his every thought, his very soul. And once he had his impulses and instincts under his heel? What would he do? Where would he go?

Anything he wanted and anywhere he wanted.

0o0o0o0o0oo0

Drevas sat at his bedroom table, smiling to himself and making a few notes in his leather bound journal.

Vicente had been bold in suggesting that he could survive on his own. And the Dunmer had shown the other vampire how very wrong he was.

The other's horrified face was priceless. The realization… Drevas could have almost tasted the internal pain.

How long would his pet mourn for the girl? The whore he had dragged off the streets for his own amusement and eventual meal? The other vampire was proving to be most entertaining to break.

A couple more painful lessons would have his pet crumbling into a quivering mess, begging for Drevas to fix him. And he would, of course, show the poor wretch that mercy. He would be an angel, a master, a god! As far as his pet was concerned anyway. By the end of his training, he would be a perfectly honed weapon and a loyal hound.

But what would he do after he had has his final product?

Well, he had some plans, starting with the decimation of Clan Berne and the rise of his own clan. He'd show those puffed-up, pompous fools that he would not be ignored. He'd show them how wrong they had been to turn him away… They called him "accident", "abomination", "unworthy"… He would show them the very definition of "unworthy". He would bring the clan to its knees and make their leader- the original Berne himself- beg for forgiveness. And Drevas would not give it. He would humiliate Berne the way he had been humiliated then leave the ancient vampire tied to a post as an offering to the sun.

And then he would take Berne's place. Clan Berne would become Clan Threnn. And if Quarra or Aundae had a problem with that, he would destroy them to. Though, he would much rather they pay homage to him than die. After all, having other clans fear you is far more validating than being the only clan in the province.

But everything hinged on his being able to turn a fledgling into a soldier. Vicente would only be the first. The crown jewel, perhaps,- reflecting all the Dunmer's superior skill and unquestionable leadership- his right hand man, the general of his armies, but the guinea pig all the same.

Mistakes would be made, but young vampires were extremely malleable. He could twist and bend the other into knots and then straighten him out flawlessly again.

He just had to get the other to submit.

A simple enough task.

He just had to wait...

"Drevas?"

The Dunmer spun around. He had been so intent on his own musings that he hadn't noticed the other come to stand in front of the open door. He subtly closed his journal, flashing his blood soaked pet a welcoming smile.

"Yes, Sera?" He gestured for Vicente to take the seat across the table.

Vicente sat, his still stained hands in his lap so that he didn't mar the table top.

"I wanted to offer my sincerest apologies for losing my temper and my control earlier." The other said, his head slightly bowed.

Drevas had to bite his tongue to prevent himself from revealing a broad smile. He hadn't thought submission would come so soon. "Worry not," Drevas said once he had his joy concealed by a mask of gentle understanding and sorrow, "I apologize for being so harsh, but you had to experience the truth for yourself."

Vicente nodded, whether in agreement or understanding, Drevas wasn't sure, but it amounted to the same thing. His pet was finally under his thumb- collared and leashed.

"Yes," Vicente said, "I have come to the realization that my initial hopes were... optimistic." Vicente leaned back in his chair and his hand went back to his pendent- the holding of which was rapidly becoming a nervous habit.

Drevas pondered taking the trinket. The small reminder of his pet's previous life might interfere with his destiny- as laid out by the Dunmer's journal. At the moment, however, it wasn't proving to be an issue just an annoyance and taking it now would only spark rebellion. He'd find a way to slyly get rid of it later.

"I am sorry." Drevas said, the apology empty of true empathy, but Vicente didn't seem to notice. He was scanning the bed room, taking in every detail, especially the books that lined the shelves. Most were training manuals, but he had always had a soft spot for the printed word regardless of genre.

Drevas noticed his wandering attention and where it landed. Drevas stood up, startling his pet, and gently walked over to the many texts. "I was once a trainer for House Rhedoran." Drevas explained. "These manuals are only a fragment of what I taught my students…" Drevas saw his chance, "Of what I could teach you."

The Dunmer circled the table until he was standing beside the smaller vampire.

"Survival as a vampire is more than just understanding and controlling your gift. It is learning to hone your new strengths and skills and using them to dictate your place in the world." Drevas told the other seriously, who was listening with rapt attention. "Everyone and everything in the world is trying to kill you. The very gods are against our existence. We must fight for our right to thrive and prove our power again and again through countless battles. To fall short is to accept final death."

The other released his pendent, "And you are still willing teach me? To teach me to control my vampirism?"

Drevas rested his hand flat on the table, leaned forward on that arm so that he was in the other's space, but not aggressively so. He placed his other hand on his pet's shoulder with a warm grin that hid a wicked sneer, "Control it? Sera, I will teach you to embrace it."

0o0o0o0o0o

After that first night, things settled into a routine.

Vicente was still too young a vampire to curb his feeding needs, so they hunted every other night- most of which were successful, if terribly messy. Vicente's instinctual hunting methods drew a lot of attention. Most of the nights they spent hunting became exercises in subtlety. The goal was to feed while the victim slept without waking the rest of the house or repainting the walls in blood.

It was far harder than it seemed.

When they weren't hunting, they were training. But, it would be months, perhaps years, yet before Drevas would trust his pet with a weapon, so training consisted only of exercises meant to mold Vicente's body into a form ready for combat.

The former shop owner, however, found the exercise schedule brutal to say the least.

He was supposedly stronger, faster, and more acute than he had been before, but he had work to access those new attributes. While "alive" he couldn't hold a sword for longer than a few minutes before his arm started to shake and his avoided running if he could help it. Apparently, even the undead could not go from "weakling" to "warrior" without building the strength and endurance required.

And he hated every minute of it.

"Keep going." Drevas barked as he circled an exhausted Vicente. "You still have a hundred more to perform."

Vicente was lying flat on his back, his chest heaving and his abdomen burning. He hated crunches with a fiery passion that rivaled the sun. "I- can't." He panted.

Drevas rewarded his response with a swift kick to the ribs. Vicente yelped.

"You could do a thousand if you would suck it up and work! You're a vampire! Your body's aches are nothing but a nescience. Ignore them and keep going."

"Drevas," Vicente groaned, "I – can't – breathe."

"You don't need to breathe!" Drevas snapped. "This habit of your former life is hindering your progress! Breathing is no longer necessary for your survival, so stop indulging in it!"

"Well," Vicente chuckled as he fought to catch his breath, "It's not- as if - I can simply- stop."

"Of course you can!" Drevas cried exasperated. "Try stopping. Don't breathe even if you feel like you need to."

"Drevas-"

"Now!" Drevas barked.

"I can't!" Vicente snapped.

Another kick to the ribs.

"Don't argue, just do it!"

Vicente held his breath, but slowly felt his lungs start to burn. Only seconds later he was gasping for air again.

"By Boethiah you're hopeless." Drevas snarled. "It looks like I'm going to have to spoon feed you yet again."

Vicente wanted to ask what Drevas meant by that, but the Dunmer swooped down like a hawk, straddling Vicente's chest and wrapping dark fingers around his throat, mouth, and nose.

Vicente bucked and twisted, trying to dislodge the Dunmer, but failed miserably. Drevas was as well balanced as a cat. The rough, stone floor ground painfully into Vicente's boney back and shoulders, but he struggled anyway. His hands clawed at Drevas's arms and wrists, pushed against his chest, but the Dunmer didn't so much as flinch.

Every time Vicente tried to draw breath past the gray palms, the hand on his throat tightened until his windpipe collapsed on itself. It was extremely painful, but not as terrifying as the lack of air.

He _knew_ he didn't need the air, but his body _felt_ like he did and it panicked. His lungs screamed, tears formed at the corners of his eyes and his eyes started to roll back. The training room started to spin….

Two minutes passed. Vicente's hands- which had been gripping the gray wrists in a futile attempt to remove them- fell to the floor with a light thud.

Three minutes. The world went oddly still and quiet. The starving ache in his chest spread to his head.

Five minutes. The pain faded leaving an empty coldness in its wake.

Eight minutes. Vicente opened his eyes. He wasn't breathing and, despite what his body feared, he still lived.

It was a most peculiar sensation. His whole body was still. He had gotten used to the missing heartbeat, the lack of pulsing blood in his own veins, but this was different. This was utterly bizarre. It was too close to death…

Drevas released his hold and stood up brushing his palms on his orange tunic. "If I catch you breathing again tonight, I'll flay you alive, understood?"

Vicente sat up on his elbow and rubbed his crushed throat with his other hand. He wasn't sure he would even be_ able_ to breathe again tonight.

He nodded, unable to speak.

"Good." Drevas stated contentedly. "Now, back to work. You owe me two hundred crunches."

Vicente stared at Drevas disbelievingly. He had just been brutally assaulted and suffocated. He opened his mouth to tell Drevas where he could find his two hundred crunches- which was double what he actually had left to do..

Drevas saw the tell-tale signs of an attempt at back talk. He slammed the toe of his boot into the other vampire's hip. "Don't argue, just do it!"

0o0o0o0o

"Don't argue, just do it" became Drevas's catch phrase, and the motto Vicente was expected to live by until his training was complete.

It was a system of "do" or "be punished". Rewards for good behavior and work well done consisted of not being kicked in the ribs or smacked across the back of the head.

Vicente spent countless months looking like a battered housewife before he finally mastered the creed- or appeared to anyway.

It really only required that he not open his mouth, but he was a talkative, opinionated man and silence was a skill hard won.

But, fortunately, he was making significantly more progress in other areas.

He could go two days now without feeding and could control himself- most of the time- well enough to stealthily drain a sleeping victim. He still had moments of weakness when his overwhelming desire to just tear something apart won over his fear of punishment. One those nights, Drevas was not pleased. Vicente quickly learned what it meant to be beaten within an inch of his life… Or consciousness since a _mere_ beating was apparently not enough to kill him, even though Drevas had dealt some impressive ones.

His physic had also started to change. His rib cage was still terribly prominent, but the rest of him was lean and rippling with slender muscle. The muscles didn't get much bigger than they were to begin with, but size apparently didn't matter. He was easily capable of lifting twice as much as the average Breton man.

His endurance grew the fastest, though, but that may have been because the combination of training and dealing with Drevas's punishments for failure.

Nether were easy to bare.

Drevas would often work Vicente until he was dry heaving on all fours- vampires being unable to vomit because anything they took in was almost immediately absorbed into their bodies.

Well, anything except solid food.

Vampires lived off blood, but they could enjoy most other beverages. Their ravaged digestive track, however, could not handle "real" food. The one time Vicente had tried, he had been extremely ill.

Drevas would have punished him for his stupidity, but he deemed the aftereffects of trying to eat to be punishment enough. It took Vicente nearly three nights to completely purge his system and all he had eaten was half an apple.

It was the only instance where Vicente learned something the first time around and didn't have to repeat the lesson.

And this was not because he was slow or thick, quite the contrary, he was very intelligent- even Drevas admitted to it. But, Vicente was very much out of his comfort zone. He was "book smart" and could recite enormous passages from text books from memory. What he lacked was muscle memory.

He had to repeat combat stances, poses, and stretches over and over until he was able to do them properly on his own. Even simple sequences required at least two nights of constant practice.

But he got steadily better over time.

And time flew by.

Seasons in Vvardenfell didn't alter the landscape like those in other provinces. Summer was the same as Winter and Fall and Spring were nonexistent. Time seemed at a standstill in the ashlands.

And by the time Drevas decided it was time to teach his pet how to carry a weapon, three years had passed.

A number that, when discovered, greatly depressed Vicente.


	16. Chapter 15: Honey

_Author's Note: There is a passage from Immortal Blood in this chapter. I do not own Immortal Blood, Vicente Valtieri, Oblivion, etc._

_I also apologize for my lateness in updating and will endeavor to have the next chapter up sooner. _

_I would also like to thank everyone who has commented on my fanfic and favorited it. You guys are awesome. :)_

0o0o0o0o

The view from the top of Drevas's home was a spectacular sight. The Red Mountain could be seen belching its gases and ash despite being miles away and the ashlands themselves teemed with life. Enormous mushroom trees grew and died while packs of guar and kagouti grazed on sparse tufts of grass. The twin moons rippled on the surface of a quiet oasis while cliff racers glided over the tops of pointed hills and thorny trunks.

Vicente came to the roof often to marvel at the beauty of the ashlands- a loveliness he had grown to appreciate as a predator as integral to the ecosystem as any other.

Tonight, however, he was not observing the diverse wildlife nor was he meditating on the intricacies of his life as a vampire.

He was thinking of home.

Of High Rock.

Of Marelle.

He held his pendent tightly in his pale hand, his thumb caressing the edge habitually. He was so deep in his thoughts he didn't even notice Drevas sit cross legged next to him, the milky eyes scanning the landscape before falling on his student.

"You, Sera, are about as cheerful as a dead guar." Drevas stated bluntly. "Why so melancholy?"

Vicente didn't answer immediately. He knew Drevas would not understand his lingering sorrow. The Dunmer had cut his ties with humanity long ago and had never looked back.

Vicente, however, was afraid to let go. He had accepted his need to drink blood- he couldn't very well ignore it since neglecting his thirst for too long had disastrous results. He even stopped yearning for the sun- though this was only after he conducted a painful experiment that forced him to re-visualize the warm source of life as a source of burning, terrible death.

But, he still longed for his old life. He still wanted to return to High Rock, to his little farm outside of Wayrest… To his wife.

Yet, he knew he couldn't go back and that weighed his heart down all the more. Vampirism tended to complicate many things…

"It's been three years since I was meant to return home." Vicente informed Drevas without looking at him.

"So it has." Drevas agreed after a short pause for some quick calculation. "Time passes quickly for our kind."

"Indeed it does. I was not aware it had been so long… I realized it only after I looked through that adventurer's journal."

"You mean the Imperial we encountered a few nights ago?" Drevas asked.

"A few weeks ago, Drevas." Vicente corrected.

"What does it matter?" Drevas said, waving the statement away like smoke. "Time is not important to us. What's the difference between a day and a year when you have centuries to look forward to?"

Vicente did not respond. He could not expect Drevas to understand why it mattered. The Dunmer didn't know that the mourning period for a widowed Breton was only a year and that the widow was then considered free for remarriage.

Three years was more than enough time for Marelle to have found a suitable husband and moved on.

Vicente felt a gray hand on his shoulder, "Sera," Drevas said, "What has you so depressed? It doesn't suit you."

Vicente glanced over at Drevas, wondering if telling the Dunmer his woes would accomplish anything.

_Well, _he thought_, I have no one else to tell._

"I'm thinking of Marelle." Vicente said plainly, waiting for the scathing reply he normally received when he mentioned any part of his "human" life.

It didn't come. "She's moved on now, hasn't she?" Drevas asked quietly.

Vicente was shocked. It almost sounded like the Dunmer was being empathetic.

"Most likely." Vicente replied. "She is still young enough to remarry. Her family would not want her to wait if another man can be found to provide for her."

"Just her?" Drevas said. "No children?"

"No. We were unable to conceive." Vicente said quietly.

A pause.

"I was married once, Sera. Did you know that?" Drevas said suddenly.

Vicente shook his head.

"I was, and happily so. We had everything. The nice house near the city, a garden, a small herd of children…"

Vicente listened. Drevas had never before spoken about his past. The two seemed surprisingly similar, almost eerily so. He did feel slight pang of jealousy over the mention of children. He could almost imagine a dozen or so Dunmer kids chasing each other around with broad smiles and happy squeals, but pushed the thought aside. "What happened to them?"

"I don't know. I had been fighting a war away from home before I became a vampire. After my turning I didn't go back."

Vicente blinked. The story was extremely anti-climactic.

"Do you miss them?" He asked.

"Once you get as old as I am, you stop worrying about the past. I can't even remember their names anymore." Drevas shrugged, "It's a blessing really. You can't expect to move forward if you remain chained to the past."

Vicente was quiet. It was almost terrifying to think he might one day grow to forget Marelle, yet at the same time he longed for that day to come. Then, at least, he wouldn't feel so hopeless.

Drevas's hand went back to Vicente's shoulder, giving it a friendly squeeze. "I know exactly what will take you mind off this, Sera."

Vicente sighed inwardly. Drevas's idea of a good distraction was rarely in sync with his own.

"Come." Drevas commanded as he stood. "It's time to move to the next step in your training."

0o0o0o0o0o0o

They stood in the training room, Drevas holding his arms out wide to gesture to the myriad of weapons lining the circular walls.

"Pick one." Drevas said. "Any weapon."

"Why?" Vicente asked, suddenly suspicious. It wouldn't be the first time Drevas used a "sink or swim" type training method.

When the Dunmer taught him basic hand-to-hand combat, he told Vicente to put up his fists then, without warning, unleashed a flurry of attacks. It was only after Vicente was beaten into the ground- his arms over his head- that Drevas taught him how to defend himself. The Dunmer claimed it was to assess the level of Vicente's innate skill… which was practically non-existent.

"Don't trust me?" Drevas said more than asked. "Do not fear, Sera, this isn't a test." He put his arms to his side. "Eventually you will learn to wield all of these, but tonight let us start with finding a weapon that feels natural to you. Give it a few test swings if you must, but pay attention to the balance and the weight. When you connect with a weapon, you'll know."

Vicente was hesitant, but found himself standing in front of an elegantly molded mace after a short walk. The blunt weapon was made of swirling gold and white metals that enchanted the eye.

He carefully lifted it from its rack, his hands wrapped around the handle. It was light, but awkwardly balanced. The head being several times the weight of the end. It felt like it would topple from his grip at any moment, despite its weightlessness. He put it back, trying to ignore Drevas's calculating observation. The Dunmer was watching every move, every glance and touch like a hawk.

Vicente moved on, stopping to examine a wooden pole. Staves were common weapons for Bretons- especially magically charged ones. He held the supple wood level with his chest, examined it from end to end, then put it back as well.

This was the pattern with several weapons. Clubs were too barbaric, axes were too top heavy, darts and throwing stars seemed odd in his palms, and crossbows took far too long to prepare. It wasn't until he reached the blades that he found weapons he could appreciate.

His first choice was a broad sword made of Nordic steel, but he found it too bulky for his tastes. The longswords and daggers- though comfortable to hold- were… off. They were too small, too lightweight for his arm. He felt as though he were trying to compensate for his strength on every practice swing- like he had to try too hard to hold back.

Vicente was starting to wonder if Drevas would simply have to appoint a starting weapon. He was about to go back through the blades again to find one that would, at the very least, be suitable when he noticed a glint of light come off a blade on a floor stand, nearly hidden in the shadow of Drevas's balcony office.

The blade was enormous. Nearly six foot in length and pitch black, save for intricately scrolling lines of gold along the edges. The hilt was molded for two hands and just as gilded as the blade attached. It also pulsed with magic. Being Breton, Vicente had a natural ability to "see" magicka- a skill enhanced by his vampirism. The blades surface rippled like water as a powerful destruction spell hummed with a life and soul all its own.

Entranced, Vicente reached for the hilt, pulling it free from its plain stand with one hand. It had to weigh sixty pounds at the very least, but the weight pulled on his arm and shoulder with a comforting tug. Its length was beyond any blade he had ever seen outside of books and tapestries but it was perfectly balanced and straight. The pulse of the blade's enchantment warmed his icy fingers and ran up his arm, making the right side of his neck and chest tingle pleasantly.

Vicente stroked the black blade, holding it like a long lost friend.

"Interesting choice, Sera." Drevas said, jolting Vicente from his admiration of the weapon. The Dunmer gestured for him to hand it over. Vicente did so reluctantly.

Drevas had to grasp the blade firmly with both hands before he could hold it upright, "Solid Ebony Claymore." Drevas explained. "Enchanted with a vampiric drain spell that will suck the life from your enemies just as eagerly as you do." Drevas examined the blade reminiscently. "I won this blade from a Dremora while exploring the ruins of an ancient deadric temple nearly sixty years ago. The battle was long and hard, but ownership of this claymore was worth the fight."

Drevas offered the blade to Vicente. "An ownership I now pass to you. Consider it a gift to commemorate the completion of the first half of training and to guide you into your future."

Vicente took the blade back with his right hand with a small smile.

"Thank you," Vicente said, almost speechless, "It is truly a fine weapon. I will cherish it."

Drevas laughed, "The best way to appreciate a blade, Sera, is to use it. Come, let's do a few practice swings."

0o0o0o0o0o0

Drevas sat in his room, his journal closed before him and his chin resting on the backs of his fingers.

He couldn't have hoped for a more successful night.

He had taken the first steps in forging the chains of "friendship" and "understanding" that would tie Vicente to him like a hound to a post. His little lie about having had a family had worked wonders on his pet. He could almost see the unconscious level of trust rising.

And the sword? If Vicente had had a tail, it would have been wagging- not high like a house dog, but low like a grateful wolf in the presence of its alpha.

The old adage about trapping more flies with honey rather than vinegar was certainly true, but even more so when that honey was applied to the broken fly after years of soaking in a vinegar bath.

But, it had to be done carefully. He had to create a bond of trust and loyalty while still maintaining control. He did not want an equal. He wanted a second in command.

And once he had that, he could work on building his army.

Just a little more time and a few more drops of honey.

0o0o0oo0o0o0o0o

Vicente rested his back against the head board of his bed frame- it couldn't really be called an actual bed since he had removed the mattress and pillows- the ebony claymore resting in his lap. His practice session had gone uncannily well. The hilt seemed molded for his hand while the blade sang through the air as he slashed through pretend foes. Had there been a real target, the flawless edges would have cut through it effortlessly.

The blade was indeed a generous gift.

And Vicente had noticed that about his mentor lately; a newfound generosity and understanding.

For over three years Drevas had been a ruthless teacher uninterested in anything save progress. Why now the sudden friendship? Had something changed in the Dunmer or had something changed within himself?

He was unsure, but he didn't want to question it.

If Drevas had opted to be kinder, why would he object?

But that raised the nagging question of _why_.

_Why_ the sudden change in demeanor?

Vicente was not one to accept anything at face value. Alchemy had taught him that looks were terribly deceiving. Poisons looked like healing herbs and healing herbs could kill a man if not identified properly.

So which was Drevas?

A poison posing as a healing herb or a healing herb mislabeled as a poison?

He rubbed his pendent thoughtfully as the questions and doubts buzzed though his mind.

Finally, after nearly an hour of silent contemplation, he let the questions go. He was no closer to answering them now than he had been before and he had discovered that sometimes, questions would answer themselves if left alone. So, he took his beautiful new claymore to its stand, which now rested against the wall of his room, and carefully put it away. Then he strolled over to his bookshelf- full of novels rescued from his past meals- and pulled his newest novel from the company of its kin.

The book was brand new- fresh off the press, as the saying would have it- having been published less than a few months ago. The cover was royal blue and the silver words emblazoned across its surface read: Immortal Blood.

Vicente settled back onto his bedframe and opened the book to a page with the corner folded over.

_"I told him what I could. There was but one tribe in Cyrodiil, a powerful clan who had ousted all other competitors, much like the Imperials themselves had done. Their true name was unknown, lost in history, but they were experts at concealment. If they kept themselves well-fed, they were indistinguishable from living persons. They were cultured, more civilized than the vampires of the provinces, preferring to feed on victims while they were asleep, unaware…" _


	17. Chapter 16: Gnesis

Vicente excelled at sword craft. Within months he had grown proficient with all manner of bladed weaponry, but he remained specially attached to his ebony claymore.

It was quite the odd talent given that he had never before wielded anything more deadly than an alchemist's knife. The iron dagger he kept under the counter of his shop had never been touched except for the day it was bought. So, where did the innate skill come from?

Drevas speculated that it might have been a trait passed to him by his sire, Quarra vampires being very good with large weapons, as well as years spent mastering the basics of movement.

And master them Vicente had. When practicing alone, Vicente could execute several complicated attacks and parries with the fluidity and effortlessness of a dancer. Sparring with Drevas proved to be far more difficult- the Dunmer's speed and agility give him the advantage.

But Vicente learned to anticipate Drevas's moves and strikes and their practices quickly escalated to being fully fledged mock battles.

"Come on, Sera!" Drevas shouted eagerly as he blocked yet another bone crushing attack. "Strike me!"

Vicente twisted his claymore out from in between Drevas's two kitanas and spun around to gain momentum. The ebony claymore whistled through the air and Drevas barely missed losing his feet. Continuing with the power he had built, Vicente came back from the other direction with and underhanded slash at Drevas's midsection. Drevas stepped back, unable to block the attack.

Vicente smiled as he drove the Dunmer back, "Having some difficulties, Drevas?" He called as he forced Drevas to jump back to avoid another blow.

"I'm just warming up!" Drevas laughed. The Dunmer dodged an upward slash and rolled to the side, putting a favorable distance between himself and Vicente.

The problem with claymores, was that you had to follow through with any attack. If a blow was miscalculated or if it missed, then the wielder had to wait to complete the arc before moving.

Vicente saw Drevas tumble to the side and knew that an attack was imminent, but could not defend himself until his blade had made the full swing. The blade was simply too heavy and long to twist on a dime. It was a weapon of power.

Drevas's kitana's, however, were designed for speed. The slender blades could twist and slash with the slightest turn of the wrist.

Vicente changed tact. Instead of waiting for his claymore to lose momentum so he could recalculate, he twisted his body in another circle, letting the blade pick up speed on a downward swing. His timing couldn't have been more fortunate. The claymore slammed into Drevas's favored kitana, the enchanted ebony blades sparking as they hit.

The kitana went spinning to the floor feet away. It hit the stone with a solid clang.

"Would you like to yield?" Vicente asked.

"I never yield, Sera." Drevas informed him, "I win." With that, Drevas bolted towards his lost sword. Vicente lunged after him. Drevas dropped to one knee and slid to his blade, grabbing the hilt as he passed and then twisted back into a standing position that faced Vicente.

Vicente stopped, keeping a healthy distance.

They stood in silence for a moment, their reflections mimicking them from the surface of hundreds of weapons.

Drevas moved first. He rushed forward, both blades aimed at Vicente's chest then. Vicente held his claymore vertically in front of himself, waiting for the right moment to either block or strike. Drevas feinted at the last moment, going to the left and aiming for Vicente's side.

The Dunmer was too close. Vicente's block was clumsy and it threw him off balance. Drevas slashed, threatening Vicente's precarious balance even more.

Vicente knew he had to put distance between them. Drevas was too close for him to safely block and far too close to hope to strike with any kind of damaging power.

Drevas, however, was slashing and thrusting like a madman and Vicente lost his balance completely while trying to block the onslaught. He fell backwards, but kept his blade facing the Dunmer.

Drevas laughed and knocked the blade lazily aside with his secondary kitana. "I win, Sera."

Vicente smiled, looking as though he would accept defeat, then sprung forward, the claymore's tip speeding towards Drevas's stomach.

The move surprised the Dunmer and he had to bend over backwards to avoid the claymore's diagonal path. Which was just what Vicente needed to force Drevas to the ground with a well-placed elbow to the Dunmer's chest.

Drevas grunted as he hit the floor, his eyes closed as the impact jarred his entire body. He felt the sharp edge of Vicente's claymore against his throat. He looked up. Vicente stood over him, triumphant, the blade angled to decapitate him if he tried to sit up.

Drevas released his kitanas and held up his palms in surrender.

Vicente removed his blade and helped the Dunmer stand.

"Congratulations, Sera." Drevas said, clapping Vicente on the shoulders. "You are getting better every time."

"Well," Vicente said, "I do believe I've had a very good teacher."

Drevas smiled broadly, "That you have, Sera. Now," Drevas said as he moved to lead Vicente from the training room, "Let's get something to drink."

"Are we going to watch the paths again?" Vicente asked, referring to a small road that adventurers tended to travel on. The road itself was clearly visible, but surrounded by steep hills on either side. It was a prime hunting spot and perfect for ambush, but lately it had become a dry source. Rumors of vampire attacks had finally reached the ears of the masses.

The paths were not the only places affected, either. Plantations now had double, sometimes triple, security, ashlanders traveled in herds, and merchants had taken to the longer, but safer roads. Hunting was poor to say the least and the emergence of vampire hunters hadn't helped. Many of these self-appointed heroes were just boys looking for fame, but a few truly knew their craft. Vicente and Drevas had wandered across more than one sun scorched corpse with a stake through its heart.

"No," Drevas answered, "We're going to a new hunting spot."

"Where?" Vicente prompted.

"Never mind 'where'." Drevas said. "Just be sure to carry your weapon with you."\

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

"Gnesis, Drevas!? Are you insane?!" Vicente snapped as they lay on their stomachs on the top of a hill that gave them a panoramic view of the entire village.

"Do you want blood or not?" Drevas snapped back, his fangs bared. The Dunmer had taken the recent situation as a personal offense. He was accustomed to regular feedings on his pick of prey and the lack of easily accessible meals had made him irritable.

Vicente didn't respond. He did, of course, want fresh human blood, perhaps even more so than Drevas did. The Dunmer could go two weeks without feeding; Vicente could only go four days. And day three had just passed. The hunger gnawed at him like a parasite, but he wasn't foolish enough to think that he could stroll into a village in Vvardenfell and simply take a meal. So, why then, was Drevas displaying such an outstanding level of idiocy?

At least eight guards armored head to toe in bonemold and carrying every form of weapon stood watch and even more wondered the streets. These Dark Elves were skilled fighters had their specialty was killing monsters from the ashlands. Vampires were not an uncommon danger- Vvardenfell was overrun with ferals- and not a single that had managed to sneak into the village had gotten back out.

"Look," Drevas said pointing to a small cluster of homes built near the opening of a kwama egg mine, "We can sneak over to those houses, feed, and escape through the mine."

"Drevas," Vicente pleaded, "this is suicide. There have to be twenty guards on duty and the rest are in the barracks waiting to be called upon. And we cannot guarantee that the mine has an exit! We could get cornered in there if we aren't killed out here!"

The edge of the Dunmer's hand collided with the side of Vicente's head, "Don't argue!" Drevas barked in a harsh whisper. "Just keep your weapon ready and follow me."

Drevas hoisted himself off his stomach and set off in the direction of the mine. Vicente still had intense misgivings. So much could go wrong and the penalty would be a swift, but painful death. A final death.

The thought to turn tail and run crossed his mind, but he squashed it. He couldn't let Drevas follow through with this plan alone. Alone, the Dunmer would surely die- despite his power and skill with his kitana. Vampires had weaknesses and they were unnaturally easy to exploit. Garlic, of course, was simply a superstition, but silver and fire were extremely effective.

Vicente's reached his hand over his shoulder and wrapped his fingers around his claymore. The blade hummed at his touch, eager for blood shed.

Drevas's plan was doomed to fail, but if Vicente was at the Dunmer's side they might be able to fight their way back into the ashlands.

Vicente sighed- a lingering habit from his life before his turning- and followed the Dunmer.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The village was silent. No one was either brave or foolish enough to be outside after dark.

Despite Vicente's fears, he felt the thrill of the hunt slowly fill him. The danger of their situation was only increasing the pleasure.

The beast inside of him wanted carnage. The closer they got to the sleepy little huts, the harder it became for him to suppress his desire to break into the homes and tear the residents apart with as much blood and screaming as possible. For the Quarra, subtlety was nonexistent.

But Vicente kept a tight hold on the leash of his inner self. Stealth was essential for Drevas's plan to succeed.

The Dunmer, of course, blended perfectly with the night. He made silence seem effortless as he glided across the dry earth.

Vicente followed his mentor's lead, but his confidence in his sneaking abilities was lacking. He could ambush prey without difficulty, but this was a different task altogether. This time prey wasn't coming to him, he was going to it.

Tiny pebbles shifting under his feet sounded like metal on ceramic in his ears. Every so often he would cast a wary glance towards the nearest of the guards. The bulky figures continued their rounds undisturbed.

After what seemed like hours, they crouched behind one of the huts, hidden completely from view. Drevas had his back and arms against the smooth stone, his bodyweight resting on the balls of his feet. He was grinning, his pale eyes glinting with the pride of success.

Vicente, however, was more anxious now than he had been on the hilltop. If his heart could still beat, it would have beaten out of his chest. All of the thrill he had felt earlier had evaporated. He had this indescribable sense of foreboding….

Drevas gestured for him to follow then crept around to the side of the hut. The Dunmer studied the arrangement of the huts for a moment then turned back to face Vicente. He pointed a grey finger to the other vampire's chest then to the wall of the hut they were hiding behind. He then pointed to himself and then to a hut further down the row.

Vicente understood, but he strongly disapproved of Drevas's new plan. Separation was too dangerous, but Drevas was already slinking towards his chosen target before Vicente could object.

If they survived this little escapade, Vicente decided he would need to have a word or two with the Dunmer. As it was, however, all he could do was take advantage of his being literally feet away from fresh blood.

The huts had no windows, but the door was at such an angle that Vicente had no worries of being seen. He activated his Hunter's Sight and located his prey through the walls. There were two light purple auras and they were both horizontal and closely spaced.

A married couple.

That certainly made things more interesting. He would have to either kill one and feed on the other, or feed on one without waking the other.

He would decide once inside. But first, he had to unlock the door. He had never been very good with picks, but he didn't need to be this time. The lock was simple enough for a basic unlocking spell.

It had been a long time since he had used magic…

Not since his turning. He had been too focused on mastering himself and learning to wield physical weapons to bother with spellcraft.

It was almost ironic that the first spell he used as a vampire would be to break into an unsuspecting couple's home in order to drain one of them of precious life's blood.

He placed his finger tips on the lock and focused his magical energies on the lock. His fingers grew warm and there was a small click. The door was unlocked.

Vicente carefully pushed open the door, slipped silently inside, and shut the door behind him.

The door didn't make a sound as it swung slowly back into place.

Vicente nodded to himself in approval then turned his attention to the sleeping couple. Both were still surrounded by their purple aura in Vicente's sight, but he could make out the details of each face.

They were young, but the harshness of a miner's life showed in the premature wrinkles around their eyes. Both had black hair and matching grey toned skin, but nothing else noteworthy in their appearance. They were simply two peasants in Dunmeri society. They were unlikely to be missed and would be easily replaced.

The man was closest, but his wife's arms were wrapped tightly around him. It would be nearly impossible to feed without waking her. But killing her seemed an abysmal waste.

His Hunter's Sight faded as he thought over his options.

A scream tore through the night, echoing in Vicente's ears like a gong. He froze, completely paralyzed with shock. It took him only a second to realize that the couple before him had not been the ones to release such a wail, but they had certainly been woken by it.

His hesitation cost him. The young woman saw him and let out a terrified shriek of her own, followed closely by the yells of the husband. Vicente bolted, bursting through the door with enough force to knock it off its hinges.

To the left Vicente saw Drevas scramble out of the house he had targeted. He was covered in blood. To the right, every on duty guard in the village was running his way.

_The mine!_

A silver arrow whizzed past his ear.

He didn't need another warning. Vicente ran.

He was at Drevas's side in less than a second, but the Dunmer couldn't seem to get up. Vicente lifted him to his feet. It was only then that he realized that the blood was not the bright red of the living. It was the half congealed black of the undead. Drevas was bleeding badly, but whether the wound was deadly, Vicente didn't know. He didn't have time to find out.

He narrowly missed being hit by another silver arrow.

"Drevas!" Vicente roared, "Get to the mine!" He thrusted the Dunmer towards the mine's entrance. It was yards away, but if Vicente could distract the guards long enough, Drevas might be able to make it into the tunnels. The Dunmer stumbled, but didn't look back as he made a staggering run for the mine.

Vicente pulled his claymore from his back and with an animalistic growl he charged forward.

The guards were used to dealing with vampires. They knew all the tricks, but never before had a vampire charged at them with a massive claymore in one hand. The shock cost one of the guards his sword arm and his life.

The ebony blade cut through the unarmored joint in his arm like butter and straight through the side of his cuirass. The blade sunk into the side of his chest almost to the breast bone.

Vicente jerked his blade free and watched the man slump to the ground with a sickening gurgle.

For less than a second everyone stopped to watch in horrible fascination, then the battle resumed with renewed ferocity.

Vicente spun around just in time to block a blade aiming to take of his head, then turned to block a stab at his chest, and then another to his hip. The guards did not believe in fair play with a vampire. The ganged up on him, five or six at a time, all stabbing and slashing. Vicente didn't have time to attack. He was kicking, pushing, and blocking at every turn. A spear got lucky and grazed his side. A sword bit into his shoulder. The guards were closing in, forming an impenetrable barrier of bonemold.

Vicente needed space. His claymore was too large for such close combat…

Another blade nicked his arm, another cut across his back.

Desperation started to well inside his chest. He couldn't block fast enough and he was quickly losing what little space he had left to dodge with.

He didn't even think about his next move. He simply acted on instinct. He thrusted out his hand, his palm facing the wall of guards, and released all his desperation and frustration in one magical burst. An invisible wall of pure energy slammed into the guards in front of him. They flew backwards, landing feet away.

Vicente did not waste his chance. He rushed through the gap. The guards that remained standing followed him and those that fell were quickly on their feet again.

The archers were once again firing their silver arrows, but Vicente avoided them easily as he ran for the villages' borders. He wouldn't risk going into the mine and accidentally leading the guards to Drevas. He would have to lose them among the cliffs.

One of the guards that had been blasted back tried to block Vicente's escape. Moments later his head was rolling across the dirt as blood poured from the stump.

Vicente didn't think about the rich scent, he couldn't allow himself the luxury. Vampires were strongest when they were thirsty and right now he needed every advantage.

He quickly outstripped the guards, leaving them yards behind as he neared the village boundary. He had no idea if the guards would continue to pursue him once he crossed that imaginary line, but in the ashlands he had the upper hand. Out there they couldn't hope to catch him.

Freedom, however, was blocked by two guards, each holding one side of an enormous tub of foul smelling liquid. Garlic water. The odor was nauseating, but the mixture was otherwise harmless. Vicente almost smirked. He would just barrel past them and show them just how scared he was of their superstitions.

The guards weren't fast enough to dump the contents of the tub on him completely before he ran through them, knocking the tub out of their hands.

Vicente looked back at their stunned faces as he ran on. He felt ecstatic, thrilled by his impressive escape, then he felt something else…

He was burning.

His clothing was almost completely soaked with the garlic water and wherever the liquid touched felt as though it had been set on fire. His wounds felt like they had been packed full of salt.

He howled both in agony and shock, stopping his dead run to strip off his tunic. He threw the contaminated clothing to the side. His skin was covered in red patches and some were blistering and bubbling. His numerous cuts were inflamed and weeping.

He fell to his knees overcome with intense, agonizing burns and sudden, undeniable fatigue.

He could hear the guards bark triumphant orders to finish him off.

He had to get up, but he felt utterly exhausted and the remaining traces of garlic water were still burning his skin. He closed his eyes, knowing his end was rushing towards him…

And so was water.

He could hear the rushing of a stream or river nearby.

With the last of his dwindling energy, he pushed himself off the ground and made a staggering run towards the sound.

The river, he realized, was at the bottom of a twenty foot tall cliff and there was no way to tell how deep it ran.

His choices, however, were extremely limited.

Hoping against hope that the water was more than three feet deep, he jumped. The last thing he heard before he hit the dark water's surface was the angry yells of the thwarted guardsmen.

0o0o0o0o000o0o0o0o0

Drevas paced his bedroom floor like an expecting father.

He had patched up his wound- a rather deep one caused by being impaled in the side by a fire poker- and had expected Vicente to return home soon after, but the other vampire hadn't. It was nearly sunrise and his pet was still absent.

Had he truly been stupid enough to take on all those guards alone?

Had he been too injured to make it back?

Had he been killed?

These questions zipped back and forth through his mind.

But, even if his pet had died, he had shown incredible loyalty. Vicente had protected Drevas at the risk- perhaps the cost- of his own life. Wasn't that what he had wanted?

Yes.

But, losing Vicente would mean starting completely over. It would have been three and a half wasted years of training and conditioning.

And, though Drevas would never admit it, he had grown fond of the scholarly vampire's company. Their conversations were never deep and they rarely agreed on any topic, but Drevas had been alone for decades. Just having another being there had made him feel more alive.

But he would never admit it.

Instead Drevas sat at his table and opened his journal to record the night's events. The scratching of his quill on the parchment helped ease his nerves and organize his thinking.

If Vicente did not return after sunset tomorrow night, Drevas would return to Gnesis and look for him…

Or for what might be left of him.


	18. Chapter 17: Survival

Vicente crawled onto the river bank, regurgitating the water he had inadvertently swallowed. The current had been far stronger than he had anticipated and the river had dragged him mercilessly downstream. It might not have been so bad if the river hadn't turned into violent rapids.

He had been tossed around like a rag doll, slammed into stones with bone crushing force, and dragged across the jagged river bed.

At some point during the chaos, he had lost his grip on his prized claymore. Vicente was not concerned that the blade would be damaged- treated and polished ebony was nearly impossible to blemish- but he worried that the magnificent weapon would be lost.

But he could not go back for it. His skin- still burning from the garlic water- was alive with a new tingle. It was nearly sunrise. The horizon was already bleeding pink into the lightened sky.

Vicente knew he needed to find shelter fast, but he was completely unfamiliar with his surroundings. The river had spit him out into one of the lush semi-swamp land areas of Vvardenfell. All around him dark trees were hung heavy with moss and dragonflies darted to and fro. But there were no cliff faces, no kwama hills, no ancestral tombs.

Nowhere that indicated the presence of a cave, mine, or tunnel.

The tingling across Vicente's skin grew stronger, more urgent. He started searching.

He was looking for anything that would hide him from the dawn, even a hollowed log would do. But he found nothing.

He was starting to panic. The horizon was blue enough to hurt his eyes now, so he kept them shielded with his hands.

He quickened his pace half running through the soft swamp land.

His feet left deep impressions in the earth as he moved and he sank even further with every step. It was as if the swamp were trying to anchor him, trap him and force him to face the sun.

He pulled his legs out from knee deep holes in the mud, knowing that he had gone the wrong way. Not that there was a right way, but he had only gone deeper into the swamp. And there was still nowhere he could hide. Only miles and miles of rotting foliage and dark mud.

Vicente was truly frightened. Had he escaped death at the hands of the Gnisis guardsmen only to be burned alive by the dawn? His body would never even be found. He'd be swallowed whole by the decay packed mud…

_The Mud!_

Vicente was struck by a sudden idea.

It was only superstition that vampires had to sleep covered in the dirt of their burial ground every night, but where there was smoke, there was always a flame. What if vampires had never _needed_ to rest in dirt, but had found other uses for it?

The mud was thick, easy to scoop up by the handful, and he was already knee deep in the reaking stuff anyway.

His first thought was to simply coat himself in the mud and continue to look for shelter, but his recent trek through the swamp had proved fruitless in that endeavor so far. And the mud would drip and shift, potentially leaving parts of him exposed. No, that was too risky.

Instead, Vicente dropped to his knees and starting scooping out a depression in the mud that was deeper than he was thick. He worked at a furious pace, trying not to think about the consequences if this didn't work.

The tingling in his blistered skin had turned into a ringing that echoed throughout his entire body like a chorus of impending doom.

The first rays of sunlight would shine through the trees in a matter of minutes and without any form of protection, it would be more than enough to sentence him to a swift, but agonizing death.

His "grave' was not as deep as he would have liked when he finished, but it would have to do.

Vicente turned around to sit in his "grave". He pulled off his boots and threw them carelessly aside then started to cover his legs in the mud. He scooped it over him like a madman, but was careful to cover every inch of his body. When he got to his hips, he laid back and blindly pushed the mud he had scooped out of his "grave" back over his torso. He closed his eyes before covering his neck and head. For his arms he twisted and shifted them into the soft mud, not stopping his frantic movements until he felt the cold, wet earth cover them completely.

He waited.

The chorus that had echoed through him had stopped, but he still counted the seconds.

Then the minutes.

The sun was now completely over the horizon and Vicente Valtieri was still alive.

So to speak.

The mud was shielding him from the sun's glare. His "grave" had become his savior from the dawn.

He would have smiled, maybe even laughed, but he didn't dare move for fear of dislocating any of the precious earth.

Instead he silently appreciated his genius, and his extraordinary luck.

_Wait until Drevas hears about this…_

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The cold mud, like the river water, was soothing against Vicente's blistered skin and the world was utterly silent through the dense earth.

He wasn't sure when exactly he dozed off- the excitement of the night having taken its toll- but when he woke it wasn't because the sun had gone down.

He had been without blood for four nights and the hunger pangs had grown violent.

His insides burned and cramped, but all he could do was suffer through it as motionlessly as possible.

According to his internal clock- which was incredibly accurate- the sun was not due to set for another four hours.

He tried to force himself back to sleep, but his thirst wouldn't let him. It writhed inside him like a snake, occupying his every thought.

He wished now that he hadn't been so indecisive in Gnisis. In fact, he was regretting having not simply feed off both the young miners. He certainly could now.

Right now he felt like he could drain three or four adults, though he knew realistically he couldn't.

The eyes were always bigger than the stomach.

Even undead stomachs.

But the thought of blood filled every corner of his mind. He could imagine the flavors, scents, and textures of every kind of blood with the relish that he once would have had for a plate of roasted beef or lamb.

Dunmer blood was spicy and strongly metallic, a flavor that was just as unfriendly as the race itself, while Bosmer tended to be heartier with meaty undertones that echoed their religiously carnivorous diet. Altmer was pure and crisp like ice water; Orc was thick and salty. The blood of the Khajiit was infused with subte flavors while the blood of the Argonians was pleasantly bitter sweet. The Imperials tasted delicately refined, but with hints of something more powerful lurking behind it. Redguards were nothing short of exotic, their blood practically sang with flavor. But Bretons…

He favored the taste of his own kind.

Breton blood was thick with the fresh tastes of spring… Their blood was happy, warm, and inviting.

It reminded him of home.

Even after all this time, his soul still ached for High Rock. For the richness of his culture and the wind chimes of Wayrest.

And, of course, he still missed Marelle. He comforted himself in knowing that she was well cared for- their little farm brought in quite a handsome profit. She would even have another man to lean on now. Someone else to care for her…

It hurt to think about that.

About the little things that had once been the center of his entire existence. Waking up every morning to her cooking, being able to tuck a lock of her dark hair behind her ear before giving her a "good morning" kiss. Watching her work in the garden, her face alight with a smile. Bringing her freshly dried lavender bundles and supple roses just because he could…

Vicente pushed those thoughts away, not wanting to dwell on the past anymore, but he had to stop himself from reaching for his pendent. He rarely noticed the thing nowadays- it had become such a part of his appearance- but when his thoughts wondered to home, his hand went to it instinctively.

Only, right now wasn't the time. He was still hours away from sunset.

His homesickness did have one benefit, however. It distracted him from his thirst and allowed him to slip back into light sleep.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Vicente waited until the sun was well below the horizon before crawling out of his "grave".

He freed his arms first then lifted his torso out of the mud. He had to dig his legs out, but it was a swift process. In no time at all he was standing once again.

His was a little stiff, but the numbness disappeared quickly as he walked around, trying to gain some sense of direction. While he walked he tried in vain to wipe the mud off.

He was amused to think that he must look similar to a morte zombie…

He certainly smelled like one.

But while he was able to wipe off the gloopy excess, his skin remained streaked. He would invest in a bath later.

First, however, he needed to get out of the swamp and feed.

The hunger pangs were destroying his focus.

It didn't help that he still had no idea which direction would take him back into the familiar wastes of the ashlands. Never before had he thought he would ever miss the heat and the ash, but now he longed for the safety he had found there.

He looked up at the gleaming stars, hoping to see a sign pointing him the right way and wishing he had learned astronomy. As it was, they were of little help.

The position of the two moons allowed him to establish East and West- North and South naturally falling into place- but the ashlands could be in any direction.

Vicente, his judgment clouded by hunger, then did the most foolish thing he could have possibly done.

He picked a direction at random and started walking.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

It was well past midnight before the swamp land started to fade into forest.

Vicente was moving only because he could not stop. His actions were mechanic, he was relying more and more on his predatory instincts; his rational mind was slipping.

When he felt himself tittering to close to the edge of losing control, he stopped his mindless trek and pulled himself together as best as he could, but the pieces seemed to fall apart even faster than before.

This was the first time since he had been found by Drevas that he was so close to feralness. The thought of becoming that animal again scared him, but he wasn't sure how long he could resist the relapse without blood.

Animal blood would help him prolong the inevitable, but only human or mer blood would actually return him to normalcy. Reset the clock, so to speak.

Unfortunately he had not seen anything living all night.

Until now…

An enormous Bull Netch glided through the trees, his haunting song echoing through the forest.

Netches were native to Vvardenfell alone, and they were perhaps the most gracefully alien creature in the province. They hovered twenty to thirty feet above the ground, their long tentacle-like limbs barely brushing the tips of the grass. They had no discernible head, a lobster-like tail, and their underbellies were a luminescent blue that cast a ghostly light on the trees around them. Their sides and back were covered in thick, leathery hide that was often tanned into cheap armor.

As graceful and passive as these creatures seemed, however, they were easily provoked. If you were ever unfortunate enough to upset one the offended creature would attack with its tentacles- which were like leather whips operated by ten Orcs each- and release a cloud of deadly poison.

A dnagerous beauty indeed.

Now, Vicente knew couldn't feed on a netch, but where there was a bull there were Betty's and these creatures were rarely found wild. They were livestock. They were herded.

Where there were netches, there were herders.

Vicente scanned the trees and sure enough he spotted three Betty Netches hovering serenely not too far away.

He carefully crept around the bull netch, knowing the males were more likely to be territorial. The big bull, however, seemed content to filter feed on the water in the air.

The Betty's were equally disinterested in his presence- a very good sign. It meant that they were accustomed to people moving around them.

Regardless, Vicente kept low to the ground, hiding behind trees and bushes as he circled the small herd.

He activated his Hunter's Sight, ignoring the massive auras of the netchs and searching for smaller, grounded ones.

Three horizontal auras caught his attention fast. The herders were evidently asleep, but once again he was in a situation that required stealth. He could easily run through the campsite and kill every one of them, but not before they could spook the netches.

Vicente dropped to all fours, his belly low to the ground, and followed the instructions of his inner beast.

He took his time, watching the placement of his hands and feet so as not to snap a twig or kick a rock. Herders were notoriously light sleepers.

As he neared the perimeter of the camp he saw that is was a nomadic set up. The men slept only on bedrolls and they had no cooking pot hanging over their dim fire.

The only thing Vicente found odd was a fourth, unoccupied bedroll, but he could not see a fourth aura anywhere near the campsite.

He shrugged it off, his thirst screaming for satisfaction over his curiosity.

Vicente slinked to the nearest bedroll, examining his prey briefly before his attack.

The elf was perhaps middle aged, with dusty colored hair and a worn face. He was asleep on his side, facing away from Vicente, with his chin tucked under his blanket.

Vicente stepped around the bedroll to face the elf. He had one shot to do this correctly without disturbing the other sleepers.

He steadied himself on one knee so that he could spring into action if things went awry and held his hands into position. He would have to be swift and precise.

Like a snake striking in the dark, Vicente put his left hand over the elf's mouth and nose, his thumb under the chin, pulled back the blanket to reveal the grey neck, and bit into the soft skin- being sure to crush the throat so that the elf was rendered silent.

The dark elf struggled, but couldn't dislodge the feeding vampire and eventually the combination of blood loss and venom calmed him.

It had been swift. It had been silent. It had been a perfectly executed attack that Drevas himself would have been proud of.

But Vicente didn't care.

He was eagerly gulping the precious liquid down, not noticing the trails of red that escaped the corners of his mouth to mingle with the dried mud. Vicente didn't stop after the heart did. He drained the elf completely, sucking the blood from the veins when the heart ceased to pump it into his throat.

Once finished, he sat back on his haunches to allow his meal to settle. The blood didn't sit in his stomach long. It quickly became infused with his dead body, flowing through his muscles and skin and bringing clarity to his mind. He felt the burns left by the garlic water start to heal and fade as the warmth spread to his finger tips and toes.

Vicente wasn't completely satisfied, but he was content. Other than for gluttonous desire, there was really no reason to feed on the other two herders.

His curiosity, however, returned in full force. He moved so that he could get a better look at the other two men.

There was only one problem.

They weren't men.

They were children.

Vicente, now completely himself again, felt his deadened heart sink. He had killed fathers before, but it was one thing to assume a grown man had children; it was another to see the now fatherless offspring for yourself.

There was a boy and a girl, both still in the early stages of pubescence. They looked like typical dark elves. Blue-grey skin, dusty colored hair… but they contained an innocence that their grown counterparts lacked.

Vicente swallowed, still tasting the father's blood on his tongue.

Had it been worth destroying the innocence of two young, defenseless children and ripping apart their delicate world to satisfy his unnatural hunger?

_Yes._

It was the hard truth, and a brutal one. He would have done the same thing time and time again if it meant sating his thirst.

And it wasn't just the beast inside that he kept on such a tight leash speaking.

If he had discovered anything about himself over these last three years, it was that he, Vicente Valtieri, would always choose life over death.

He was a survivor.


	19. Chapter 18: Obligation

Drevas didn't know what to expect as he followed the river near Gnesis downstream.

After hours of searching and through the process of elimination, he had determined that the river was the last place Vicente could have gone, but it was far from a comforting thought.

The murky water was treacherously bipolar. The current would appear smooth and soft for a few yards, then sudden twist into raging rapids capable of pulling even the strongest of men under the tide. Enormous stones peeked from under the water as white froth tore past them and the shallower areas revealed a river bed of jagged razors.

A mortal would certainly be killed, a vampire had only a slightly better chance. Broken branches and splintering logs could easily pierce their unbeating hearts. The violence of the rapids could break a spine or neck with ease.

Even vampires could be paralyzed if their backs where snapped in two.

But as the pale Dunmer scanned the water, he saw no indication that his pet had met an untimely demise.

He ran his fingers through his orange Mohawk. He did not believe for a moment that Vicente would have used the opportunity to leave him and make a foolish attempt to return to High Rock. The young vampire was far too attached to him and last night's display of selflessness proved that the first seeds of true loyalty had sprouted through the chains of blind obedience.

That singular moment had signaled that it was time to move onto the next phase of his rise to glory: the expansion of his bloodline.

True, he was only expanding the Berne bloodline, but if the original Berne was killed along with his degenerates, then Drevas would become the patron of the stealthiest bloodline in Vvardenfell.

Clan Threnn had a nice ring to it.

But Drevas couldn't hope to lead his people alone. He needed a right hand man to maintain order and obedience. Vicente would not only lead the Dunmer's army to victory, but he would be the peace keeper after dominance was secured.

Yet, Vicente had not returned home and the evidence- or lack thereof- seemed to point towards the young vampire's unfortunate and inconvenient death.

Perhaps he had been killed by the guardsmen after all…

Normally corpses of the undead were put on display as trophies, but it was possible that the guardsmen had decided to destroy the remains instead.

The village still reeked of death and bloodshed. Maybe Vicente had taken too many lives to be an appropriate symbol of triumph.

Mortals were so touchy about such things.

Drevas's inner monologue was interrupted by a dark gleam in the river.

He had followed the curve of the river past the deadly rapids and to a calmer pool that lazily flowed by. The water here was significantly deeper than the rapids had been and seemed prone to flooding.

As Drevas stepped cautiously closer to the water's edge the soggy bank slipped and sank under his fine boots.

As he peered through the dark ripples he could see a distinctly familiar shape resting peacefully on the sandy river bed.

It was the ebony claymore, its reflective blade darker than any natural black could ever hope to be.

Although the Dunmer's gaunt face was completely emotionless, his chest constricted with fear.

He leaned closer to the water and searched the bottom of the pool for another familiar shape… a slender, human shape.

The fear passed quickly as he realized that his pet was not there, but concern still lingered. Vicente adored his blade- the two were nearly inseparable.

To see one without the other was… disconcerting.

Drevas straightened up again, scanning the surrounding foliage.

A thick, putrid swamp waited on the other side of the pool while the greenery on his side was still forestry, but covered in thick moss and slime.

Drevas circled as far as he could without swimming across the water. The ground was soft, but the pool's flooding had erased any tracks- if there had been any to begin with.

The Dunmer went back to towards the ebony claymore.

He doubted if any mortal had both the strength and lung capacity to retrieve the massive blade, but he was not going to leave it.

He stripped off his adorned tunic, his boots, and trousers- carefully hanging them from a relatively clean branch- then jumped into the luke warm waters.

Without hesitation he dived for the river bed.

Unlike the living, the undead had a tendency to sink in any form of water. They lacked buoyancy.

Drevas made it to the bottom easily. In fact, he was able to stand straight and flat footed as if he were on land.

He grabbed the hilt of the magnificent blade and lifted it up. It was no lighter under water than it was above. He had to use both hands to hold it.

He threw his head back, looking at the water's surface. Swimming back up would be difficult enough, but the added sixty pounds posed an interesting challenge.

The Dunmer bent his knees and kicked off the sandy river bed, kicking his long legs furiously to reach the surface.

The blade dragged him down. For every few inches of distance he gained, he lost three.

Curses bounced off the inside of his skull as he struggled, but he was determined to reach the surface with the blade in hand.

His frantic movements, however, attracted unwanted attention.

Three slaughterfish raced towards him from their hiding places in the dark corners of the pool.

Drevas only noticed the swift flesh eaters when one brushed against his thigh.

The Dunmer stopped his kicking and immediately sank, losing all the ground he had gained, but getting a clear view of his attackers.

The slaughterfish were of average size, but Drevas could not swim to the surface, fight the little monsters, and hold onto the claymore.

He dropped the blade, his hands at the level of his face.

All three came at him at once. He knocked aside one with a sweep of his arm and caught a second one in his hand. The third dodged him.

Drevas held the captured fish in his hands and carelessly snapped its spine. The snapping nuisance went still. He released it and watched it float slowly upward.

The other two turned instantly on their fallen comrade and tore it apart, scale and flesh floating around the carnage like a morbid collection of floating lanterns.

They made short work of it before resuming their assault on the increasingly bored Dunmer.

He caught tail of one as it zipped past and used it to swat the other like a fly. The force killed both, sending one to collide with the river bed before floating a few feet above it.

Drevas let go of his makeshift bat and grasped the blade once again.

It took him nearly ten minutes to break the pool's gentle surface and to climb back onto the bank, his Mohawk plastered to his skull.

He rested the blade against the tree on which he had hung his clothing, not bothering to get dressed until he had drip dried somewhat.

He pushed his hair back and looked back upriver, towards the very distant Gnesis.

He was still unsure whether Vicente was dead or alive, but he had a perfect opportunity to kill two cliff racers with one arrow.

If his pet was simply delayed in returning home, then he should go ahead with his plan to "recruit" new clan members.

If his pet was indeed dead, then Gnesis had robbed him of his second in command and he would do them the same kindness.

0o0oo0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Vicente sat waist deep in a shallow pond, his ruined pants drying on the soft grass a few inches away. The article of clothing would have to be disposed of once he returned to Drevas's home. A shame since he was rather fond of that particular pair of pants. It was difficult to find clothing that fit his boney frame properly, but such was one of the woes of being a vampire.

Perhaps he would be able to find another pair on one of his future meals.

But, ruined clothing aside, he was actually enjoying his little adventure.

For three years Drevas had dictated his every move. When he ate, when he slept, when he trained, hunted, even how he looked.

At first, he had embraced the strict schedule. It had been a source of comforting order in the chaos of his new life, but now…

Now he was free from the Dunmer's influence.

And, contrary to what Drevas had preached, he was doing just fine on his own. He had found shelter- sort of, food, and was even able to enjoy the luxury of a relaxing bath.

Certainly, he had taken some losses, his blade being the most prominent one, and he had not been unscathed, but he was alive, nourished, and clean.

And in no hurry to place himself back under Drevas's grey thumb.

And he felt…guilty?

Guilty for wanting to remain alone when Drevas was probably looking for him? Perhaps even worried that he was severely injured or dead?

Vicente owed his very existence to the Dunmer. It was beyond ungracious of him to selfishly stay absent.

He traced his fingers through the still water, watching the ripples collide and fade.

The code of chivalry he had been raised on made it very plain that the proper course of action would be to return to Drevas, especially since he owed the Dunmer everything he was and had.

Yet, he continued to sit in the quiet pool, staring absently at his reflection.

The features of his face hadn't changed since he first looked at his undead self in Drevas's mirror. The same pale skin that stretched tightly over his gaunt cheeks. The same pink eyes flecked with red near the center. He even had the same short, bristled hair- Drevas insisted that it was more practical.

Vicente sighed and looked up to the stars. The twin moons were well on their way down towards the horizon.

He had wasted a great deal of time in the secluded pool. There was no possible way he could return tonight.

Fortunately he has passed a small cave less than half a mile back.

He stood and stepped out of the pool, slid his dried pants over his thin hips and then laced them up.

He would focus on getting some sleep and leave his moral grappling for tomorrow.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

The cave was tight, but deep enough to hide Vicente completely from the sun.

He curled against the back wall, his head resting on the cold stone.

It took a long time for him finally drift off, but his dreams were far from pleasant.

_He was sitting at home in his study reading over a new recipe for health potions._

_The sun was pouring through his open windows as a light summer breeze carried in the scents of wild cotton and gardenia blossoms. _

_He could hear Marelle bustling around in the kitchen as she prepared dinner. _

_He smiled to himself._

_Another day at home…_

_Something crashed to the kitchen floor. Vicente immediately stood, "Marelle?"_

_No response._

_"Marelle, Dear, are you okay?" _

_He walked into the kitchen to see his wife on her knees trying to pick up thousands of freshly shelled peas._

_"Here," Vicente offered as he knelt to help, "Let me get some of these."_

_Marelle jumped, startled by his voice. She twisted around, took one look at Vicente's face and screamed, tossing a handful of raw peas at him as she stumbled backwards. _

_Vicente was shocked at her reaction, but that quickly gave way to anger._

_"Marelle!?" He snapped._

_She screamed even louder. Suddenly a dunmer with a heavily tattooed face and orange Mohawk appeared to place himself between Vicente and his wife. The dunmer wielded a small knife, fear etched on his face as he wildly slashed._

_"Get away from my wife, Monster!" The dunmer yelled._

_Vicente bared his teeth in outrage, "You're wife?" He roared._

_The dunmer slashed at him again. Vicente effortlessly grabbed the knife by the blade and wrenched it out of the dunmer's hand. The dunmer looked paralyzed with terror._

_Vicente pushed him aside, not noticing that the force had thrown the dunmer against the wall hard enough to cause his nose and lip to bleed. _

_He grabbed Marelle's arm and pulled her closer to him to demand an explination. She continued to scream, the sound grating his ears like metal on ceramic._

_The dunmer was yelling, struggling to stand back up._

_More yells came from outside as a dozen men burst through the front door holding torches and swords. _

_The sounds became an agonizing crescendo, Vicente covered his ears._

_Marelle ran to the dunmer, her arms wrapped around him._

_The mob pounced upon him stabbing him with their swords and waving their torches at his face._

_Vicente was forced to his knees, his arms over his head._

_The crowd parted to let a man with a large cooking pot through. The contents were dumped over Vicente's head._

_He screamed as his flesh melted off his bones, the garlic water burning straight through him. _

_He fell onto his side, writhing in agony as skin and muscle fell off him in chunks, leaving behind only white bone._

_The last thing he saw as his eyes poured down his cheeks was Marelle wrapped in the dunmer's arms…_

Vicente woke with a jerk, the back of his hand slamming into the cave wall. The sting hurt, but it was barely noticed in the wake of the nightmare.

He was, of course, used to them by now, but this one had been particularly nasty.

He leaned back against the cave wall, willing himself to relax.

He didn't ponder on the dream's meaning. His nightmares had a horrible tendency of incorporating all the elements of his recent worries in a way that would elicit the most terrified response. Very rarely did they offer any suggestions on how to deal with such stresses.

Unfortunately, he had very little to do other than fall back asleep.

It was still several hours till dawn.

He snuggled back against the cave wall and closed his eyes.

By the time the sun had set, Vicente knew what he was going to do.

He would return to Drevas, but things were going to change.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Drevas sat at his table, his journal open and his quill scrolling across the textured pages. Against the stone wall rested the ebony claymore.

Vicente had not returned last night either.

Drevas was beginning to truly worry about his pet, but he had something else to occupy his thoughts.

The Dunmer's many earrings were tinkling with the ferventness of his writing, though it was hard to say if it was from excitement or rage.

Suddenly, the scratching stopped.

Drevas sat completely still, his ears twitching.

He could hear footsteps…

His hand instinctively went to his finely crafted kitana- which he rarely removed from his hip.

The steps were getting closer to his bedroom door. They hesitated outside, their shadow peeking from under the wood.

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

"Drevas?" called a very familiar voice.

The Dunmer grinned so widely that every one of his teeth were visible, took his hand off the hilt of his blade, and swiftly opened the door.

"Vicente!" Drevas exclaimed, his arms wrapping immediately around the thin vampire's shoulders in a genuinely warm hug.

Vicente was too stunned to speak or react.

Drevas stepped back, his hands still resting on Vicente's shoulders, though obvious disgust and confusion crossed his grey features as he noted the other vampire's dirt streaked and burned skin.

"What happened to you, Sera?" He asked, also realizing that his pet was shirtless and barefoot.

"It is quite a tale, Drevas" Vicente responded wearily.

Before he could continue, Drevas held up his hand, "I'm certain it is, and believe me, Sera, I can't wait to hear it, but first, I have a surprise to share with you."

Vicente raised an eyebrow, but before he could ask if it could wait till later, the Dunmer grabbed his arm and lead him down to the dungeon, bouncing on every step.

Vicente was almost too tired to be excited about this "surprise", but he was also wary of it.

He had never seen Drevas so pleased, and he was curious as to the source of the Dunmer's joy, but he and Drevas had very different tastes in "surprises"…

"Vicente," Drevas said, gesturing for him to look through the bars of a cell that Vicente was intimately familiar with.

Inside the cell, curled in an unconscious fetal position was a dunmer male. His tunic was torn and blood stained the collar. His clothing suggested a civilian, but his build was closer to that of a fighter…

"I want you to meet Vanel Llandras, protégée to the Captain of the Gnesis guard," Drevas continued.

Vicente stared confused at the unconscious guardsman, "Drevas…"

"He is our newest family member."


End file.
